Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)
by nemain13
Summary: This WinterWidow story started as a one-shot but proceeded to eat my soul. Follow Natasha and the Soldier through the day mentioned in TWS when he shot her, through their past together in the Red Room, and beyond. Possible spoilers for the MCU through CA:CW. It's a slow-build story, but stick with it. (And dear people, when I say M, I do mean M.)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So I'm back, and it's not with Temptation. Sorry about that. Don't throw things. I will get to it. Promise. MCU, particularly Bucky Barnes, has been rattling around in my head for a bit now, so I managed to get this out of it.

Nat's almost as old as Bucky and the Cap. I know that's not currently MCU compliant (but I feel it's coming). She's going to call him Yasha. I know that apparently is non-comic compliant as it seems she never calls him that based upon the quick research I did, but I don't really care. _Preparate_ , darling. They're mine to play with now. Spoilers for everything up through Winter Soldier.

(This started as a one-shot, but Thor help me, it's going to be a lot more than that now...)

* * *

 _I was five and he was six  
We rode on horses made of sticks  
He wore black and I wore white  
He would always win the fight_

 _Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down_

 _Now he's gone, I don't know why  
And 'till this day, sometimes I cry  
He didn't even say goodbye  
He didn't take the time to lie_

 _Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang,…_

 _from "Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)" – Nancy Sinatra and/or Nico Vega – both versions are amazing, and you should really listen to one or both while you read this as I had both versions on a Spotify loop while writing._

* * *

The SUV was fighting for adequate traction, sliding around as she took the incline of the last rutted rocky pass road that led toward the flat plain where Odessa waited for them far too aggressively for safety, a cloud of dust trailing them as they headed for the pickup point. In frustration, she slowed slightly, shifted down, sacrificed speed for control. The scientist was babbling something, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutching the military-issue duffel bag that contained all of his old life he had been allowed to bring with him, but Natasha had no patience with or interest in his adrenaline-fueled chatter. Every piece of her training, every ounce of her experience was screaming at her.

The entire mission so far had simply been too easy.

She did not exclude from her reckoning the pile of perimeter guards' and special forces' corpses she'd left behind. They had been neither unexpected nor particularly difficult for her to deal with. Stealing appropriate transport could only have been easier if the keys had been left in the ignition. It was almost insulting, really, that so few enemy defenders had been involved, that the pursuit had been so utterly inept. Any SHIELD-trained agent should have been able to handle this assignment, the one she had been promised would be full of dangers only her skill set was capable of suppressing.

She'd been hammered and forged by the Red Room, was now an ally of Nick Fury, and looking for multiple layers of danger in any situation was so deeply ingrained into her that she never questioned the fact that some trap still lay ahead even though they were ostensibly almost "home free." Fury's intel was rarely wrong, and so the lack of resistance she'd encountered so far increased her tension ten-fold.

 _It's better, much better, to see an army ahead of you than to keep waiting for the whisper of the blade in the dark._

Her lips quirked slightly at the thought. Having been the blade in the dark more times than she even bothered to keep track of anymore, she was intimately acquainted with both sides of the equation. Therefore, she scanned the rocky hills around them continuously waiting for whenever the thing that was coming (because there was always something more) arrived.

The steep climb ended, and the road began a short flat run across the top of a narrow ridge. If she could make it down the other side, then they would be within the coverage range of the extraction team. Such safety as could be had waited on them there. Using her comlink, she radioed ahead to update their location. She shifted gears and accelerated, the engineer yipping in complaint as the vehicle bounced across the washboard road surface with teeth-rattling momentum.

In the corner of her field of vision, she saw something in the side mirror shift, and her hand flew toward one of her guns in a motion born of instinct. Before she could grasp the pistol, she felt the impact of the first tire blowing and had just enough time to return both her hands to the wheel before the heavy SUV began to swerve wildly. The scientist's endless noise had become a mixture of profanity and prayer as she fought for enough control to get them to safety. With only one tire gone, she was confident in her ability to keep them headed toward the waiting SHIELD team. With almost no pause, though, she felt the bone-jarring thump of two of the remaining three tires disintegrating into shreds of rubber and steel, and then the world was spinning as the battered rim of the driver's side wheel hooked a particularly nasty ridge in the road and the SUV flipped.

The screams of the physicist filled her ears, and except for the fact that it rendered him deadweight and thereby a liability, she counted it a great relief when he bumped his head as they bounced around inside the cab. The moment the motion of the crash stopped, she was grabbing his inert form by the arm of his jacket, slashing through the seatbelt restraint, striking out with both feet to clear the remains of the passenger window, and maneuvering them both out as quickly as she was able.

The SUV lay on its roof at an angle to the rock wall of the pass. At least its position provided some cover. She cursed softly as pain lanced through one arm while she dragged and shoved him into the shelter formed between vehicle and terrain.

 _Fewer sweets for you while you were working would have been healthier for us both just now,_ she muttered in Russian.

Panting and swiping at the blood coming from a cut somewhere above her left eye, she scanned for the shooter as she propped the scientist up and crouched in front of him. Her fingers slipped to his neck to find a strong, steady pulse. Satisfied that he was at least still alive, she pulled her one of her pistols and began to survey the area for the threat that had overturned them. There was nothing but the sighing of mountain wind, ticking of the hot engine metal cooling, and the slow creaking of the one wheel what hadn't been destroyed as it sluggishly turned.

She'd been taught patience, had it beaten into her, and so she waited now between the dubious cover of twisted metal shell of the SUV and the rocky wall of the roadway for her enemy to show. Her body took the moment to begin making its complaints known. She acknowledged the arm that was broken in at least one place, a half-dozen cuts of varying degrees of seriousness, two ribs that were at best badly bruised, and then more than eighty years of surviving seized the knowledge and shoved it away from her. She could continue to function with far worse than this. She'd had far worse done to her than this as a part of routine training…..

A slight spattering of gravel from the ledge above her had her standing, spinning, pistol ready. As she was making the move, she knew it was the wrong one, but before even her reflexes could react, she felt something punch her through her side, just above the curve of her pelvis, slicing through her as neatly as if she had been skewered. Pain exploded through her body, and she dimly registered something soft and wet striking her as she struggled to keep herself upright, hands skittering on the stone in front of her, gun falling to the ground. She glanced down at the nuclear engineer she'd been tasked with extracting only to find that half his head was gone, whatever coveted knowledge he had once possessed now spread across the rock behind him and across her lower body like some horrific cave painting. He'd been shot right through her.

She denied herself the luxury of succumbing to the pain. That could come later. This mission was ended, but the primary mission of her life, staying alive, was perhaps achievable if she could keep her head clear. She dropped hard behind the cover of the overturned SUV, grabbed for the familiar shape of her gun, and concentrated on holding on to her weapon, steadying her hand, silencing her rough breathing, waiting for the next wave of whatever attack would surely follow. Distantly, she heard the sound of heavy vehicles rushing up the pass road toward them. Blood streamed over her hip, down her leg, soaked through the weave of her suit, pooled sluggishly in the grit beneath her, and her trained mind processed that her vision was starting to darken in around the edges just a little as she saw the battered metal grill of the first of the extraction team convoy round the curve ahead. Minutes later, under the watchful cover of a SHIELD strike team, emergency medical treatment was being administered to her as they tried to stabilize her for transport.

Years later, even after analyzing the situation from every possible angle, she would never know what it was that caught her attention. There was no sound, no flash of movement. It was as if someone had reached down and plucked a secret string inside her, made her resonate to a note no one else heard, and she gasped, head rolling on the gurney. The med tech glanced up, murmured some apology, but she made no response. Her eyes were locked on figure in black which slowly unfolded itself from behind the cover of a largish bolder. She could only see the end of the barrel of the sniper rifle that was slung across his back, and his face was mostly obscured by his mask and goggles, but there was no mistaking the wild fall of dark, windblown hair or the tiniest glint of silver metal where the position of his left hand made his glove gap away from the wrist of his tactical jacket minutely. She could feel the pressure of his gaze from behind the darkened lenses.

 _Him_. She would have known that figure, that stance anywhere. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her eyes on him, wondering if his mission were over or if it were just beginning. Her hand clawed weakly against the metal surface of the gurney, instinctively grappling for weapons that were no longer nearby, for some form of defense against that which could not be withstood.

The tech murmured something, but she was too distracted to hear it. A stabbing pain made her gasp and look down for the barest second as he applied something to the still-bleeding hole in her abdomen. She quickly turned her head back only to find….nothing…..

She stared at that emptiness, felt it fill her, until whatever painkiller they'd added to her IV finally kicked in, and the past swallowed her.

 _Yasha._

The drugs held her down, and she dreamed of the incredible deadly power of a metal arm that could punch through steel and rip through bone, the accuracy of a sniper who never missed, the brutality of a skilled hand-to-hand fighter who had never pulled a single punch even when she lay broken and bleeding on the training room floor. The surprising capacity for tenderness in his touch when they huddled together in whatever place they managed to seize a moment for themselves. The heat and taste of that beautiful mouth, its hungry demand as it slanted over hers, as it devoured her body, delivered her pleasure. The understanding and complete acceptance in those blue, blue eyes when he was above her, beneath her, inside her. The never-dying ghost who made those powerful enough to know of him quake with fear, the Winter Soldier, the master assassin who had been her teacher, her lover, her mission partner.

Her match. The only one she'd ever found.

 _Yasha…who they told me was dead….._

She was still in the hospital bed they'd forced her into when Fury brought her slug ballistics had processed. He asked no questions when she asked to keep it, only dropped it into her open palm. The end of the spent round had flattened after impacting the scientist's skull and the rock behind it. Her fingers had folded around it tightly, and she ran her fingertips over and over it the edges of the ruined metal, learning every detail of it through touch. The day they finally released her to her own Spartan quarters, she had it pressed into her palm until she finally was alone. Then she took it and tucked it away in a small wooden box kept in a drawer in her room.

Not even the serum they'd flooded her body with in the Red Room could stave off every scar. Initially red and angry before fading to an ugly ridge, the scar was a constant reminder of the mission, as real in every way as the bullet which had given it to her. Certainly, there was medical treatment available that could have removed the external blemish, and indeed such a treatment was offered to her when she went in for a routine follow-up to the injury, but she always simply shook her head, declined with a small smile.

"I'll just keep the reminder, thank you," she murmured, and the look in her eyes, something hard and bright and dangerous glittering in the green depths, prevented the tech from asking further questions and made him grateful that he was not the one who had given the Black Widow anything that made her look like that.

Had anyone been brave enough to ask her, and had she been in a forthcoming mood, two stars that never aligned, she might have told that person why she chose to keep the bullet and the scar. It was because she recognized them for what they were.

The assassin who did not miss, the soldier who always took his prize had refused to take her life. She knew all too well that if he had wanted her dead that day, she would be no more than a notation in SHIELD's colorful history by now, perhaps a name on a graven memorial wall. Her mind turned over the intricacies of what she would have done if she'd wanted someone in her situation that day dead, tactics and patterns he had had no small part in creating.

 _He could have simply mined the road. He could have used a grenade launcher instead of shooting out the tires. He could have shot me in the head first and taken care of the engineer at his leisure after. He could have slit my throat. He could have set his trap far enough from the extraction point that the rescue team never would have made it before I bled out…._

In the darkness of night, she ran her fingertip over the raised tissue of the scar, wondered if he'd been punished for allowing her her life, if he had once again been ordered to sit docilely in the seat of that nightmare machine that existed only to rip them from each other and from themselves, to refine them by torture and twisted science until they were compliant, perfect weapons again. She hoped that the death of the scientist had been more valuable than the life he'd left her in the obscene math his handlers practiced.

 _But I am a realist, and I do not think so._ She traced the scar again, thought of the bullet in its hiding place in her drawer. _Pain and love and love and pain, all we ever were able to have of each other in these two tiny packages. Like a kiss from him, like a gift, the only way he has been left to show me that he cared…._

The bullet and the scar were also proof, physical proof, that he was still alive, that everything about the way she remembered about the night they ended was just another Red Room lie. No matter how vividly the illusion their handlers had crafted stood out in her mind, the reality was there for her in that twisted metal, her twisted flesh, ugly and undeniable.

 _Like a promise._

Their time would come again, and maybe they could find freedom to love without the pain.

 _Yasha._

* * *

 ** _If you liked it, I wish you'd let me know._**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This got incredibly long, people, and so we're back to a multi-part thing. I didn't really intend to do any other parts of this particular timeline, but I watched TWS again, and a few things really stood out to me. First, how delicately Natasha is forced to walk the tightrope between her past with Bucky and the information Steve needs to stop him. Second, the fact that when Bucky is on the overpass with the Strike team, he chooses to go after Nat. Not Captain America, super-soldier extraordinaire. Nat. I tend to believe this is because while he may not remember everything (or hell, most likely, anything) about their time together, he knows she is the greater threat. I can't leave it alone. It just keeps coming.

* * *

 _Seasons came and changed the time  
When I grew up, I called him mine  
He would always laugh and say  
"Remember when we used to play?"_

 _~ from "Bang, Bang"_

* * *

I.

Natasha left the Corvette in the first available space in front of the hospital almost before it was fully stopped. It could be someone else's problem. Frankly, at this moment, it made no difference to her whether or not it was there when she came out.

Now she was watching Nick Fury struggle for his life. The man who had been willing to take a chance on someone with her past, one of the first people to really believe that she could be more than the beautiful weapon, the monster, the Red Room had shaped her into. One of the only people who had ever been able to make her believe she was capable of being more than that. She had seen plenty of bad situations, had brought men to death and destruction in plenty of ways, and when she asked Steve if Fury was going to make it, her mind was already tallying up the wounds he'd received. The assassin's mind inside her had already given its judgment, but she found herself asking anyway. Steve's soft response soothed her only inasmuch as he didn't try to lie to her, didn't try to offer her some hollowsweet words. There was respect in that, mutual acknowledgement between two people who have seen and dealt far too much death to pretend it wasn't a possibility for anyone at any time given the right set of circumstances.

Her hand lay lightly against the glass of the operating room window, fingertips barely touching it, and she forced herself to be still, _still_ , because she knew if she moved even the slightest little bit, something inside her would break. She would scream and smash the glass. Stillness was as much control as she could manage as she watched the surgical team try to revive the battered body on the operating table.

 _He cannot die. He is a constant. He always finds a way to slip the trap._

A part of her separate from the cold cynicism of her training and trade was waiting for the trick, like a kid at a magic show, waiting for the big reveal where Fury would sit up on the table, share a sardonic grin with her, and both of them would appreciate the showmanship of the moment even though she hadn't really been fooled by his sleight-of-hand.

 _Because he has to pull through. He always pulls through._

Only he wasn't getting up and the pace of the doctors working on him had taken on that grim speed she knew was an indication of new horrors to come….

Training overruled all. In addition to her stillness, the training demanded information. Such a strike against those few people she had so reluctantly allowed into her heart would be avenged. Fury, Clint, maybe even Steve, they were the closest things she had to anything remotely resembling family, had ever had perhaps, the only people who understood her at all, and she would pull in every favor, expend every resource to protect them, to even any score she could. If she could do nothing else just now, she could begin to assemble the pieces she would need to track down those responsible for this, to burn their world to its foundations and sew the ground with salt. Nobody took that which was hers. So she asked Steve about the shooter.

"He's fast and strong. He had a metal arm."

And she froze. Just like that, her past reached up again from the darkness where she tried to keep it subdued and wrapped its filthy, bloody hands around her life again. When Maria Hill arrived and Natasha demanded a ballistics report, she could practically chant the words right along with the SHIELD agent, "Three slugs. No rifling and completely untraceable."

"Soviet made?"

Hill was distracted by the sudden flurry of motion and the beeping of monitors beyond the glass. The file fell to her side as she murmured, "Yeah," and they all watched Fury's body convulse under the defibrillator once, twice, and then become still for the last time. Natasha was not aware that she was begging Fury to live, not to leave her, not to abandon her to the burden that had just resettled itself on her shoulders, a burden he would have understood, would have been able to give her insight to carry.

"Don't do this to me, Nick. Don't do this to me."

 _Don't leave me alone._

 _Don't leave me to hunt him for taking you away._

II.

She stood in the antiseptic room and looked down at the man who had been her point of stability, the lodestone to her admittedly questionably aligned moral compass for so long.

 _He's too still. Too quiet._

Fury was always in contained motion, always moving toward some goal, always implementing some strategy or moving some piece into or out of play in the grand game of protecting his nation and his world. His black coat should be streaming out behind him like dark wings as he schemed and plotted for the good. To see him still and cold under this hospital sheet was a desecration of him, somehow. It was painful.

And yet, she could not make herself turn away. Even when Maria Hill came to tell her they needed to take the body. Natasha continued to stand, memorizing him, trying to absorb somehow some last bit of that unshakeable belief he'd had that she could be a force for good instead of just a force with which to be reckoned. She was unaware of the tears streaming down her cheeks, and that child inside her who _should have known better, who should have been dead by now_ kept murmuring that every moment this would end. He would sit up, some deep game he'd been playing finishing. _Now. Now. Get up now. Nick. I need you, Nick…._ When Steve gently, gently said her name, something within her shattered, and she spun on her heel, left the still shell behind.

She needed distance, space, time to sort the pieces of everything around and get some kind of strategy together, but Steve followed. That clinical and analytic part of her knew Steve was probably only moments from remembering that she had seemed to know something about the shooter, that the perfect recall and mind made for battle strategy would never let him miss clues as obvious as the ones she dropped, and so she chose the only path open to her, the attack. The part of her that was lost and bleeding inside also wanted to lash out at someone, at something, and Steve Rogers was such a handy and sturdy target. Even though she knew there was nothing he could do, knew Fury had been shot _through a damn wall by one of the greatest marksmen ever to live,_ she couldn't stop herself from asking the question, didn't bother to tame the sharp edges of it.

"Why was Fury in your apartment?"

Steve's body language went from concern to defense as he shifted a little uncomfortably, those guileless blue eyes showing signs of an internal struggle, his natural inclinations towards trusting a teammate and truthfulness fighting with something darker before he managed a subdued, "I don't know."

It was the first time she'd seen Steve lie, and to be honest, even as dire as the situation was, there was something somehow reassuring about how very badly he did it. Almost everyone else she knew lied as easily and as often as breathing, could spin seemingly incontrovertible truth from pure shit, and the fact that Captain America could not even manage a basic fib competently might be the one bright spot she had had in hours. Her mind flickered briefly between finding it some sort of rare and noble trait and wondering if he would allow her to teach him to do better lest he find himself in need of a lie to survive.

Rumlow intruded, telling Steve that his presence was demanded from on high back at SHIELD, and she took advantage of the moment to slip down the corridor and into an unused room. She pulled the blind on the corridor window back ever so slightly. She wanted a look at Rogers when he didn't think he was being observed. Perhaps his incompetence with falsehood was a ruse of some kind. _Nobody can really be that bad at lying, right?_ She saw him run his hands through his hair in frustration, and then his gaze fixed on the open snack machine beside him.

A feline smile spread across her lips as she watched him slip up to the man refilling the machine and distract him by asking for a certain type of snack which the man briefly dug into his supplies to locate ( _because who was going to tell Captain America no, right?)_ just long enough to tuck a very familiar-looking silver rectangle in the back of a row of bright pink bubble gum before he paid the man, tucked the package of food into his jacket pocket, and headed for the place where Rumlow impatiently waited for him.

 _You may not lie worth a damn, Rogers, but you've got quick hands and an eye for an amusing hiding place. I'll give you that…._

She waited until the machine was all locked up and the vendor gone, until the last remaining Strike team members lurking in the corridor had left, until ripples of disturbance caused by Fury's treatment and demise had subsided. Then she slipped down the hall and pulled several dollar bills from the slim wallet in her pocket.

III.

She'd had long enough while Steve was gone to decide how to play the angle. When he came back, she told him enough of the truth to get them headed in the right direction, the barest summary of the attack outside Odessa, the name Winter Soldier, the scar on her hip. She finished by laying down a challenge, one she knows Steve Rogers will never be able to resist.

"Going after him is a dead end. I know I've tried. Like you said, he's a ghost story."

 _As always, it's a mixture of truth and withholding. He is a ghost story. Even I couldn't find him._

Almost immediately after she had been cleared by medical five years ago, she'd gone looking. Telling Fury only that she was looking for intel on this new player in the game who'd injured her, she had taken several small sidetrips to parts of Europe she had no SHIELD business in, places she remembered or that SHIELD had documented that were part of the Department X system which had made her. She gathered information the way she always did. She charmed. She threatened. She slipped in and stole. She called in markers long-held, made new bargains she might or might not keep. She set traps and looked for whatever might fall into them. There was nothing anywhere, nothing but rumors and heavy dread.

The closest she had gotten to something real was deep in the rotting remains of a facility formerly held by Department X. In a chamber in the basement, she'd found a rusted portion of the machine she recognized as what their handlers had used to "reset" their "assets" when they became intractable. A chill ran down her spine as a memory from her own long past rose to the surface, a bloated corpse she would do anything to avoid.

It was not the first time she had recalled this particular moment. That had happened not long after Clint had brought her to Fury. She'd been in a SHIELD facility under their care. Parts of her she had lost or that had been forcibly ripped from her, things she would have been much happier never having regained had been dredged up from where her handlers had buried them. She hadn't been able to keep solid food down for a week.

 _And still, I always prayed this particular thing was just a nightmare. I told myself it couldn't really exist. Even when they were ordering us out to garrote men in the night and blow up hospitals, I kept believing that this…thing….was too horrible for a human to do to another._

The tattered abomination sat under the flickering tube lights like a sullen animal. Without volition, almost without knowing she was moving, she crossed the room to it. She reached out a hand to the decayed remains of the platform.

 _This is where they would secure the assets to before starting the "procedure."_

 _Procedure. Innocuous sounding term for living hell. But the Red Room always liked playing that type of linguistic game. Send enough electricity through someone's brain to wipe them clean? Procedure. Sterilize a young woman so she can fuck as a weapon and kill on command with no worries about having a child? Graduation ceremony. Reach in and tear out the basic humanity of an individual through sustained brutality and torture? Reset and Asset Management._

Her breathing was raspy, fast, and by instinct she tried to calm it. The only other sound was the soft music of water dripping down a far-away drain, but memory had supplied others, the hissing buzz of high voltage current and hoarse screams muffled only slightly by a plastic mouth guard…..

 _How naïve I was. Even with all that blood on my hands, I still thought there were boundaries people would not cross. I believed there was a limit to cruelty._

 _IV._

There had been several instances in their long years of association when the Winter Soldier had disappeared from her life. Sometimes, he was _different_ when he returned, although as a child she had been unable to articulate exactly what that difference was. It was that his posture was more rigid, his words were even fewer than usual, and even though those being trained by the Red Room saw him frequently as he hammered them into perfect little weapons or broke them during the endeavor, she'd had the notion that during these times of _difference_ he did not actually see any of them at all. She was intimately acquainted with danger from her earliest memories, though, and she had known that the distance in those storm blue eyes was dangerous. Years later, long after he was gone from her life, she would be undercover in a circus as an acrobat, see the lion tamer order his half-starved and frequently-beaten charge up on the stand for the head-in-the-lion's-mouth finale to his act, and when the shattered king of the jungle obediently opened his jaws for his handler, that same flat, lost gaze had been in his eyes….

The trainees in the Red Room were told stories of the Winter Soldier's accomplishments as if he were a figure from myth or legend. They grew up on bedside stories of throats cut, traitors punished, enemy facilities destroyed, and in the dark, they whispered to each other, "One day, I will be good enough to train with the Winter Soldier." He was not a person to them; he was the dark force they aspired one day to be worthy of training with.

The first of his disappearances that she had taken any kind of special note of had been long before he had become _her Yasha,_ before she had earned the name of Black Widow for herself _._ She had pushed her young body hard, learned fast, competed ruthlessly, and she had made those childish whispers in the dark a reality as she was chosen for advanced training. Sparring against him, she'd managed to evade his lightning quick strikes, tumbling and side-stepping as he'd shown them. Suddenly, her attention had slipped for the barest moment and she fell for a feint. The resulting blow from that silver arm had landed sending her tumbling, hands and knees scraping open on the rough concrete, agony racing up her side from cracked ribs. The spiteful bastard in command, _what had been his name? Which one was that? Ivanov. Yes. I remember. Ivanov….._ had demanded that the combat continue, and she'd dragged herself to her feet, tried to bring herself into position, but the Soldier had simply studied her, blue eyes unreadable. Long moments had passed, and even though Ivanov was growing increasingly strident in his commands, the Soldier made no move to comply.

She'd been in the Red Room for as long as her memory stretched, and she knew the consequences that would come from such refusal. She forced herself to adjust her stance which had slipped as her body naturally tried to find a position in which the damage to her ribs was less agonizing. She'd moved her hands slightly, fingers flexing to indicate that she was ready for the Soldier to continue that which was required by their commander, that she could take it. Her eyes darted from the Soldier to Ivanov urgently.

 _Come on. Understand. You are bringing it down on your own head._

What must have been minutes only felt like eternity. The Soldier's expression had shifted ever so subtly. If she had not been watching him so carefully, she might have missed it. He blinked, once, then twice and suddenly his eyes shifted left, then right, and when they returned to her, he seemed to _see_ her for the first time. His body dropped out of its fighting stance. Tilting his chin slightly, he glared at Ivanov, lips turning up in an easy smirk she'd never seen on his face before as he gestured at her.

"You gotta be kiddin', right?"

 _English. Was that…why was the Soldier speaking in English? And such a dialect..._ It was not the polished enunciation their language tutors drilled into them. It took her moments to sort the sounds into meaning, and she paled when they clicked into place. Nobody talked to Commander Ivanov in this way.

"Soldat! You will comply! Continue the combat!" The commander's face was getting blotchy and red. His hands were shaking with his rage. Natasha stood very still, afraid to draw more attention to herself.

 _What have I done? What have I caused?_

The Soldier glanced at her again, and he turned for the exit to the room.

"You can go right straight to hell."

They were on him before he even made it to the door, fists and cattle prods applied with no restraint until he fell and was restrained. As they dragged him out, those eyes that _knew her, saw her_ pinned her again before they pulled him through the training room door, and he'd nodded slightly, something like satisfaction in the set of his mouth.

The director of the Red Room facility itself, a woman they all were forced to call "Mother," had clapped her hands sharply.

"We will continue. Natalia Alianovna, report to the medical officer. Anna Ivanovna, you will take her place."

She'd forced herself wearily down the corridor toward the treatment room, too tired now to do more than lean against the cold wall and shuffle her feet. Smears of blood from her torn palm spotted the greenish tile of the wall, but she could not find the energy to wipe it away. From somewhere far away, she'd heard the screaming.

Someone was always screaming here. That was not new, was in fact so common that it barely even registered at first. What made her skin crawl and a single tear she was quick to bat away slip down her cheek was the fact that suddenly the voice sounded familiar, sounded like….

Dully, she pushed the swinging door of the medical officer's room open. As she sat in the hard metal chair waiting for someone to see to her injury, she'd turned his last look over and over in her mind.

 _He saw me. He saw_ me.

Nobody saw them in the Red Room, not really. They were less than human, less than the trained dogs the guards kept outside to run down escapees. They were components, raw materials that would either be refined or destroyed in the process and discarded. Until that moment, she never realized just how hungry she was for someone to _see her_.

He'd been missing for three weeks after that. They were told he was on another glorious mission for the nation, told of his prowess, reminded how fortunate such insignificant ones as they were to have the chance to be shaped by him. When he returned to the training room, Mother had called her to spar with him before any of the others. That honor alone had made her wary. There was no spark of recognition in his eyes when she faced him. As Ivanov looked on, it took the Winter Soldier less than a minute put her in a hold so brutal he broke her humerus in two places and dislocated her shoulder.

* * *

 **If you like it, please let me know. R &R, my lovelies.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Lookit! Two whole chapters in one day! I get a cookie for that right? I was told there would be cookies… Also, I am on a major 80s music kick right now, so let's shift these lyrics a little.

* * *

 _you might think i'm crazy  
to hang around with you  
maybe you think i'm lucky  
to have something to do  
but i think that you're wild  
and inside me is some child  
you might think it's foolish  
or maybe it's untrue  
you might think i'm crazy  
but all i want is you_

 _From "You Might Think" by The Cars_

* * *

I.

Years had passed. She had been educated, honed, refined, purged by the serum's fire, prepared by the surgeon's blade, crowned with the title Black Widow. She could fight unarmed in every style that mattered, could tumble with ease, could pick any lock and drive any vehicle that presented itself, could speak six languages, could seduce and beguile when the job required it. There was not a weapon made or a piece of tech created that she could not handle, but always the most dangerous aspect was her razor-edged mind. Like the Winter Soldier, she became a thing those in the intelligence world whispered about, muttered about in their nightmares. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, the unaging figure who had been her trainer became her mission partner, and enemies of the state fell before them like a matched pair of blades sliding through the shadows to meet the demands of their glorious nation.

There had been something of a child's pleasure in those first days showing him the extent of her skills, how she had taken in all his lessons and had made them something uniquely her own. He did not praise her and she did not expect it, but in his mission reports at the end of those beginning assignments, he never failed to tell their handlers about her contributions, justly crediting her with each proper action. Each terse statement of fact he gave felt better to her than a military parade in her honor.

The length of their assignments increased, the deceptions and covers they were required to maintain intensified in their complexity. They infiltrated state-run institutions, rooted out moles from within their own intelligence network, lay traps for and brought down spies from enemy governments. They were shuttled from place to place, given orders, picked up after whatever result they had been ordered to produce was delivered.

He spoke little on most of their missions, as taciturn as he had ever been. During the long and tedious periods of waiting that inevitably cropped up, she began very gently to tease him. Her first forays had met the blank stone wall of his stare and failed. It became something of a challenge to her, and she had never, ever been able to back away from a real challenge. Conquering the supposedly unconquerable was the foundation of her entire life. The only true freedom she possessed was the freedom to _go through_ that which stood in her way. She would have a reaction from him.

 _He will see me again._

 _II._

Her favorite form of teasing became giving him names.

The first time she'd done it had been the product of boredom. Their position was on a high rooftop, the chilly wind of an early spring raking across them. A kill order had been given for a low-level minister, and they were on top of this building waiting to wrap up the last detail of the mission.

She leaned against the metal casing of a heating vent. Her contribution was over. She had befriended the minister's ridiculously frilly airhead of a mistress to find out when he would be visiting her apartment next. The woman was an affront to every sensibility Natasha held, but she'd sat for tea, ooh-ed and aah-ed as expected over the gaudy décor, played with the tiny, yapping dog the woman carried about in her arms like a child, and chatted over a dozen vacuous topics during the past weeks until she'd gained enough of the woman's trust to get the necessary information. Now the coup de grace would come from the sniper lying beside her, still as if he had been another carved ornament along the roofline.

"I think you always get the easy parts of these assignments."

He made no response.

"You didn't have to go down there and sit in that apartment day after day, actually drinking that disgusting liquid she called tea while surrounded by that horrifying wallpaper. Who can't make tea? How much intelligence has to be lacking if one cannot even make proper tea?"

The wind stirred his hair, and he shifted ever so slightly so that it did not affect his sightline. Despite his lack of response, she somehow knew he was listening. There was a quality to his silence that felt….attentive.

"Then there was the dog. I have never seen an animal so nervous and ill-tempered…"

Had that been a twist to his lips?

"Of course, if I had been constantly smashed up against that ridiculous fake bosom of hers and smothered in that cloying scent she must bathe in, I suppose I might be ill-tempered, too…."

She was almost sure of it this time, that tiny quirk of the mouth that brought out interesting crinkles at the corner of the eye she was able to see.

"It might have been the name she gave it. Poor thing. She called it Izyum. If I had been named after raisins, I would bite everyone who came near."

She sighed and moved to stretch out beside him. Even though growing up in the training facility had prepared her for extreme temperatures of every kind, she shamelessly picked the downwind side, his left, and scooted as close as she could so she could take advantage of his always higher-than-average body temperature, automatically leaving him room for movement with the gun if the need should arise. Again, there had been that flicker of amusement while she was getting settled, but he continued to appear to ignore her as he kept his vigil through the scope of the rifle he held.

"Soldat," she whispered, on the verge of asking him a question. There was no reason to whisper, really. No one knew they were up here. The white noise of the wind would have ripped away even a shout from this height.

He deigned to give her some grunt of acknowledgement.

"Soldat," she said again, more slowly. The conversation about the ridiculous name for the dog had put her mind on an unexplored track. For the first time, it occurred to her that she had never heard his name, had never heard him called anything other than "Asset" or "Soldier."

He shifted ever so slightly to indicate that she should get on with whatever it was she was going to ask.

"Have you no other name?"

Clearly, it was not what he had thought she was about to say. His whole body went rigid for a long moment, but his finger against the sensitive trigger never moved at all. Still refusing to look at her, he had shaken his head ever so slightly. _No…_.

"I feel just a little absurd calling you soldat every time, comrade."

He had bitten that full bottom lip, glanced at her. "I…have no other to share, _little widow_." Something flickered through his eyes and disappeared as he turned back to the scene through the scope. His voice hardened as he spoke again. "There is no need for another designation. Soldat serves the purpose adequately. I am a weapon of the state, not a puppy." The fingers of that metal hand had flexed softly, and she'd heard the slithering whisper of the plates of his forearm rearranging themselves.

 _Reaction._

She'd been silent a long moment, rolled onto her back, stared up into the spreading glory of a clear night sky above them. For him, that had practically been a full lecture.

" _I_ do not find it adequate."

He had grunted again, clearly intending to ignore the conversation and be done with it.

"I shall give you another."

That same soft flex and slither. She smiled just a little at the stars that were above her.

At that moment, she felt his body tense slightly, relax again, and then the silenced rifle spat out two quick rounds followed by the heavy thud of glass in the building across from them cracking open and the screams of the mistress who had been walking naked into the minister's bedchamber when his head exploded. The shrill yips of the small ridiculous dog began moments later.

The Widow and the Soldier moved nimbly and quickly over the rooftops and away to the vehicle command had left them for their return to base. They'd come down the stairs like any other couple going out for the evening, heavy coats swathing them against the cold. He'd been carrying a briefcase, but there was nothing strange in that. It seemed to weigh nothing as he casually slipped it behind the driver's seat. No one who saw them would have noticed anything except possibly their striking attractiveness. Even that was of no importance when compared with the sound of emergency service sirens racing to some problem two streets over.

As they pulled to the side of the narrow street to allow the ambulance to pass them, he'd turned his head and studied her intently.

"So you plan to name me."

Adrenaline and the euphoria that always accompanied a job well-done made her grin at him. "Yes, comrade Soldat. I think I will."

"And under what name will I have to suffer? Shall I be Fifi or Spot?" he'd grumbled as he pulled them back into the lane.

"Neither. Both are foreign and ridiculous. I'll name you like any proper Russian wolfhound. You shall be…Lovkij."

He'd actually snorted at that, and her heart did a little stutter step at the grin that transformed his usually dour expression. His eyes, usually like the sky before a thunderstorm, were lighter, bluer when he smiled.

"As a sniper, would Zorkij not be more appropriate?"

"Just as you like, comrade borzoi. You know best."

The grin widened briefly, and she had reveled in the unexpected victory of it long after the smile itself faded away.

III.

Every mission thereafter, she gave him a new name. She moved through other common dog names, and for a long time insisted on addressing him as Purga or Vjyuga, arguing that they were the most like his other "official" title until he put her in an arm lock and slammed her face down on their training room floor one day, bending over her and snarling low in her ear, "I am no damned Samoyed."

He'd twisted the hold ever so slightly, but her mind registered immediately that it was not enough to cause real damage. Even with the twinge of pain, she hadn't been able to stop the smirk from spreading across her lips. He'd cursed and released her, leaving her to pull herself to her feet as he stalked away. She slowly worked her arm in circles to loosen it again and analyzed the encounter again and again.

After that, she'd shifted to characters from books and movies.

IV.

They'd just hurled themselves over a low retaining wall as the explosion from the charges they'd set consumed the truck full of military equipment that had been the night's target. In the steady rain that was falling, she'd stumbled on the slick, muddy ground and begun to slide. He reached out with his left arm, snagging her tactical vest and pulling her hard against him before she could fall off the precipice just beyond that was their escape route. For a moment, they'd simply sat that way, her body draped across his, both of them trying to catch their breaths before making their way down the cliff face to their extraction point.

The position was intimate. His metal hand was splayed across her back and over her hip to keep her against him until they regained control. Her hot breath was washing over his throat, and she could feel his chest heaving beneath hers as she clung to the straps of his jacket. It struck her how little it would take to turn her head and press a kiss against the strong column of his throat, to feel his pulse against her lips, to taste the droplets of rain there, and at the thought, she flickered her gaze up to find him staring down at her. His eyes were that inviting, hungry blue again, and she swallowed hard. That sense of danger she'd had around him when she'd been only a child was back again, but it was different now. This was not the wary caution of soft prey around the master predator. This was a sudden awareness of a woman that the man beneath her was vital and male and that the two of them had just survived when others had fallen.

She forced herself to look away, ran her hand lightly over the silver plates of his forearm, tracing the streaming paths of the raindrops across them with her fingertip. He shifted beneath her uneasily, watching the path of her digit with an intensity that made something inside her tighten.

She was no fool. The Red Room had included every form of seduction in its training. But she had never thought of that as a thing that went with the Soldier in any way. Not until just this moment with the feel of him hot and alive and wrapped protectively around her.

 _Dangerous. This is…too dangerous… even for me._

And so she'd widened her eyes slightly and flashed him a truly wicked grin. She leaned in close to him and whispered, "I've got it. Tin Man." She'd lightly thumped his metal bicep just beneath the red star.

He'd shaken his head and made an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat before hauling them both up to meet their waiting ride home below.

* * *

 ** _Thanks to the resource russiandognamesDOTnet for the help with the fun above. According to them, there are things you name your dog and things you don't. Some of it is apparently based on breed, hence the comment about the wolfhounds in relation to Lovkij (agile) and Zorkij (sharp-sighted) and the Samoyed with Purga (blizzard) or Vjyuga (snowstorm). And before anybody asks, no, I speak no Russian at all. Just play like it all looks good, won't you?_**

 ** _If you liked it, won't you let me know? There's a button around somewhere that will help you with that..._**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : Moving right along. Let's see what we can do about getting these crazy kids together. What do you say?

* * *

 _No matter where you turn you ain't got no place to stand  
You reach out for something and they slap your hand  
Now, I remember all too well  
Just how it feels to be all alone  
You feel like you'd give anything  
For just a little place you can call your own_

 _When all your faith is gone  
It feels like you cant go on  
Let it be me  
If it's a friend you need  
Let it be me_

 _~ From "Let It Be Me" by Ray LaMontagne_

* * *

I.

They were sparring with knives and without an audience today in one of the large storage areas on the lowest level of the base. It had the feel of a game to her, almost like a sport. She was completely aware that they might injure each other, but she had confidence in their mutual control and in the serum that flowed through both their bodies. The lack of direct supervision and a crowd of wide-eyed future assassins made her grin at the Soldier as they'd limbered up. He hadn't returned it, had only eyed her with that perpetually furrowed brow and downturned mouth before turning and crouching to check something in a pile of his gear behind him.

"I have a new one for you today," she'd teased.

He sighed. "Of course you do." And with that savage speed and grace that never stopped surprising her, he'd flipped and lunged into an attack.

She dodged, spinning into a kick that caught him in the back. He didn't make a sound when the blow landed, only used the momentum of it to assist him as he turned a neat somersault and came up in the ready position again.

"Don't you even want to hear this one? It's _literary_."

They circled each other, feinting and shifting, looking for an opening left unguarded, for the advantage that would yield a victory.

He shook his head, but she saw his smirk. "As was the last. Are you telling me you have managed to best it?" The hand he'd had at his side was suddenly flinging another blade at her head, and she evaded it, sprinting behind one of the large crates piled around the room. She was still laughing, remembering his expression during the last mission when she'd dubbed him after a character in a children's book she'd come to know while she had been learning English. It had been old and tattered, but it had been one of the few books with pictures in the Red Room's collection, so reading it had been a great indulgence awarded only to students who had excelled in their language studies and in their combat training. She'd put many an opponent on the mat and learned endless sentences in the odd symbols of the new language to win that prize over and over. It had been many years since she had even seen it, but she recalled the woeful expressions of one of the main characters perfectly. During the mission, Soldat had been especially demanding with her, and she'd flung the name on him with a grin and a wink.

Once he'd come back to base, he'd gone immediately to the library and demanded the book. Then he'd come directly after her. He had not liked being called Eeyore at all.

She kept moving, weaving through the obstacle course looking for something that would give her an advantage. "This one is not a children's tale. And I promised not to use that one again….even though you are still a dour donkey so much of the time, truth be told, Soldat…." She'd lowered her voice for the last part, but she knew full well he could hear it.

A black blade embedded itself half an inch deep in the wooden box in front of her as if it had bloomed from within. She heard his low growl as she changed direction. For a few moments, there was no sound at all.

"I came up with it after watching you take the head of that agent with a machete while we were in Spain," she called.

There was the slightest disturbance of the air behind her and she ducked a vicious swipe, blocked the punch that followed, dropped nimbly down to attempt to sweep his legs out from under him. He jumped her, flipping his blade at the same time, and brought it down overhand. She allowed the forward motion of her body to propel her into a series of rolls that placed her behind in the shadows of one of the support pillars that stood near the far wall.

"Cheat," he growled.

"Just using the terrain to my advantage as I was taught," she said, sing-song, already moving away from the position she'd given away with her taunt.

Then the lights went out.

 _The fuck?_ She froze.

From a very different part of the room than he'd been in moments before, from much further away than he should have been able _to be_ , she heard a soft chuckle.

"No laughter now? Turnabout, and all that, little spider. It would seem _my_ terrain was nearer the light switch."

The only illumination came from the window in the door and the small crack running under it. Yellow light from the hallway did almost nothing to dispel the gloom here at the far side of the room. There was no sound to tell her where he might be now.

She swore silently in four languages as she slipped down the row of pillars by touch and began climbing the third she came to until she felt the support beam at the top. She pulled herself up, clinging to it and slowly moving herself toward where she knew a stack of equipment crates stood in the corner.

 _When in doubt, go straight up…._

She inched along, every sense she'd ever had warning her of a danger she could not see or hear. When she judged she had gone far enough along the beam to reach the crates, she paused. Somewhere near the door she heard the slightest brush of sound.

 _Waiting on me to come for the lights? Ha. Not a chance, sad blue Soldat donkey…._

Confident, she gripped the beam with her legs, leaned back, and extended her hand toward where the wooden platform she was seeking should be. Her fingertips grazed the edge, and she pulled back up, adjusting her position slightly until she could find the corners. Then she gracefully flipped back onto the top of the crate….

And into the Soldier's waiting arms.

II.

She pushed, twisted against him seeking some leverage, elbowed him in the ribs, and found herself suddenly crushed under him. Her blade was somewhere near his thigh, and she fought to bring it into play, but he seized the knife with his metal hand and tossed it. She heard its impact somewhere across the darkened room as he restrained her hand above her head.

"It took you long enough. I thought spiders could climb better than that."

Her immediate and profane response made his body shake with silent mirth.

The darkness made her aware of the feel of him on top of her. The hard muscles in the thigh pinning hers down to prevent her from using her legs as a weapon or means of escape, the always-cold metal of his titanium hand where it manacled her wrist, the always-hot flesh of his body as his abdomen pressed against hers where their loose practice gear had rucked up during the struggle all clamored for her attention. She ignored the distractions. Her other hand managed to punch at him, grazing his cheek and temple with only a glancing blow before it joined the other in the steel circle of his grip.

It was enough for her to know he was wearing a pair of the sniper's goggles that were a part of his combat uniform. She knew from experience that the light from the distant hall was more than the goggles needed to render the room bright as day to their wearer. Panting, she directed a sarcastic glare toward where she knew his face hovered above her. "And you called me the cheat. I'd be curious to know exactly _where_ you had those goggles hidden in that outfit, Soldat…."

He clucked his tongue at her softly. "You should have been paying attention earlier." She knew then what he'd been tinkering with before they began. He'd had this whole scenario planned from the start. Infuriated, she bucked, futilely pushing hard to unseat him.

"Yield, little widow."

She could feel his breath against her face, and she snapped her head forward with a blow intended to break his nose.

"I will _not."_

She froze completely at the touch of the cold steel blade laid across her throat.

"Natasha. Yield."

Had she ever been called Natasha? Had there ever been anyone close enough to her to be entitled to use the familiar form? Certainly not Ivanov. Not "Mother," either. Both had always addressed her with rigid formal correctness, given name and patronymic, every syllable reinforcing that there was not a bond of affection present. _One did not have affection for one's blunt instruments…._ Not any of the other girls who she had been raised with _because one did not have affection those who stood in one's way, either..._

The Soldier had always called her little spider or little widow. In his reports, she was Agent Romanoff or the Black Widow. She could count on one hand the times he had called her Natalia, remembered the circumstances of each perfectly, but now the diminutive of her name brushed soft, soft against her ear. It was like a physical caress. She shivered, unable to suppress it or the soft exhalation that accompanied it. The blade bit into her the tiniest fraction, and she heard him curse as she felt the blood slipping down her neck. The knife was instantly gone, and his thigh was no longer across hers, had slipped between them as he knelt to press against the small wound.

"You stubborn little idiot. Sometimes the only course of action to survive is to yield and wait for a better opportunity," he growled. "You must learn this."

She could not see him, but she knew he was close, so close. She wished she could see his eyes, see the passion in them she heard in his voice.

"I do not accept it," she said softly. "Some battles must be fought even if we are beaten in the end."

"Little idealist," he sneered, body shifting. "Who in the hell taught you a thing like that? You could not have learned it in the Red Room."

 _Here in the dark, I can be honest with him. Here in the dark, I can say it just once…._

She licked her lips nervously, and she heard the rhythm of his breathing shift momentarily.

"You did," whispered. "You did, the day you took punishment instead of beating a wounded child at the behest of a monster."

His breath hissed between clenched teeth, and his strong body trembled on top of hers. The bite of his metal hand grew painful as it tightened around her wrists.

"And do you not remember what came after? Have you forgotten what they made me do to you _the next time_? Who was the monster, Natasha? See the situation more clearly."

"That was _not you_. It was Ivanov. I have always known it…."

"I assure you _these_ hands were the ones that broke you," he snarled, black despair roughening his voice, the sleek silver metal skimming over her skin with the sound of softly sliding plates as he released her wrists to encircle her throat lightly, lightly, the implied threat clear.

Hesitantly, she reached her freed hand up and found the bristly curve of his cheek. "No, Soldat. I know the difference."

 _How I wish I could see him. I need to see his eyes…_

"Do you?" he sneered, but she felt him turn his face into her touch.

"I think the better question is do _you_?" And her hands slipped into his hair and pulled him down unerringly to her waiting kiss.

II.

At first, he came willingly, but at the first touch of her lips against his, she felt him tense and begin to pull away.

 _No. No. I will have this._

She'd brought her foot up, placed it on the thigh he was bracing himself away from her with and pushed hard, kicking away that support. He grunted and caught himself on his elbows, but she took advantage of the moment to wrap herself around him more fully. She pressed her mouth to his again, again, gentle touches, soft changes of the angle of her head, invitations she would not allow to be declined.

 _I will not yield._

"Kiss me," she breathed against his closed lips. "Think of it as a different sort of combat practice, if you must, but…."

"Natasha," his voice was a shaky whisper as she ran a hand under the edge of his shirt and up, up along the ridged muscles of his back. His lips parted against hers when she turned her nails lightly against him for the return stroke downward. She took advantage of it to gently seize his beautiful bottom lip between hers.

The hard titanium of his hand slid up impossibly gently from her throat to cup her face, and he began to return the kiss. She felt his tongue slip against hers almost hesitantly, almost as though he expected to be denied, and when she stroked it with her own just as delicately, he made an urgent hungry noise. She felt his left hand fist in her hair, cradle the back of her head, pulling her a slightly different angle.

And then he was devouring her with kisses he breathed right through. It was as if he could not bear the thought of stopping even long enough to take in air.

She combusted right along with him, the arm on his back coming around him to _hold him there_ , clutching, sharp nails digging in slightly. Her legs circled his narrow waist as he adjusted his position to lie fully between them, and then his right hand was slipping under her to hold her against him as he rocked his hips down hard against hers, allowing her to feel the proof of his need.

Her head fell back at the sensation, and he pressed open-mouth kisses down her neck. She moaned when he licked over the already-healed knife wound, the rough feel of his tongue rasping the tiny amount of blood from her skin, the unexpected intimacy of the action, making her gasp. The hand that had lifted her against him made its way up her body, across the gentle curve of her belly and under the cotton top she wore for their training sessions, slowly sliding up and up. She arched, ground her aching body against what she needed, against what was so close but still denied her.

He took her mouth again, that growl she felt more than heard tingling through her body when she welcomed his tongue deep, stroking and sucking it. The hot fingertips of his right hand ghosted with infuriating lightness over the hard peak of her breast, and then they both froze.

Voices and footsteps were descending the staircase at the end of the hall.

 _Ivanov. Damn him. Damn everyone in this place._

He rested his forehead against hers for the briefest of moments. Then he was gone, and she was pulling her clothing to rights, reaching upwards in the darkness for the beam she knew was there….

III.

When Ivanov and the others with him began to enter the dark training room, they cautiously shuffled back, keeping themselves in the light. Two of their armed thugs came in with weapons drawn until the lights were switched back on. Neither assassin was visible.

"Soldat!" yelled Ivanov, pushing his way into the middle of the room with bravado he had recovered when the lights came back on.

The Winter Soldier rose from a crouch behind the box immediately to Ivanov's left, and the commander could not quite stop his reflexive step away. His thugs trained their guns on the Soldier, but he gave no indication that he was even aware of their existence. The Soldier's eyes were invisible behind the tinted lenses of the goggles he wore, and menace rolled off of him in a nearly palpable wave.

"Where is Romanoff? What are you two doing here in the darkness?"

Natasha neatly flipped down from the support beams above and landed in front of Ivanov, making him twitch in surprise again. She did not allow any sign of having noticed this second slip to cross her expression as she slid her knife back into the sheath she carried on her hip.

"I am sorry, Commander. We were training for a specialized form of night combat. It is highly likely that we will encounter the need for this on some of our upcoming assignments, and I asked Soldat to instruct me further in this specific type."

Ivanov's suspicious eyes flicked from one assassin to the other. They stared blankly back at him, and he flushed. He focused suddenly on the smears of blood that remained on Natasha's neck and stepped forward, fingertips forcing her head to turn so he could inspect it more easily. She remained still despite the urge to slap his offending hand away from the place the Soldier had laved such a short time ago.

"Such training must be approved ahead of time from now on. It is apparently dangerous. One of you could have been damaged irreparably."

The Soldier said nothing, gave no response that he had even heard other than to slip his own blade away. Natasha nodded her head regally. "Of course, Commander. All further training of this type will most assuredly be coordinated in advance."

As she turned and left the room, she could feel the weight of the Soldier's gaze following her. She suppressed the shiver that came with it, the hunger she felt that made her want to run back into the room and pin him to the hard floor and take and take until there was nothing left of either of them.

 _For the first time, I think I understand fully why the Red Room considers this a weapon._

* * *

 **So not quite key lime, yet, but progress, perhaps. Click that button. Leave me a note.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Still with me? Throwing things yet? Good, good…. Back to the 80s for the music.

* * *

 _The love we share_  
 _Seems to go nowhere_  
 _And I've lost my light_  
 _For I toss and turn, I can't sleep at night_

 _~ from "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell_

* * *

I.

She reported downstairs for breakfast and orders the next morning. Different groups of trainees passed in and out, grouped by age or skill or survival, and hastily gulped their portions before being herded into whatever horrible things the new day held in store for them. Some had savage, eager expressions; some had eyes still red with tears from nightmares. Some had faced filled with a steely determination that transformed the soft childish curves of their faces; some had gazes that were almost hollow. She felt something twist inside her.

 _From such beginnings are we all made, broken, and remade again in the Red Room's desired likeness…._

Aware that at almost every moment in places like this they were being observed, she forced herself to finish the food in front of her no matter how little she desired it.

II.

Her schedule for the morning listed a training exhibition for a class of beginners. She reported expecting to find the Soldier waiting on her. Just before entering the room, she felt a flutter of anticipation.

 _How will he look at me today?_

He was not there. It was not hers to question. She took her stance and began the demonstration. Her opponent, one of the combat experts assigned to the young ones, was of so little threat to her that she actually had to hold back so the practice was not over too soon. It was not arrogance on her part. It was that she was used to fighting against someone much faster, much stronger, and much, much more devious.

 _After one has fought the master, apprentices are of no interest. I wonder if that is how he felt for so long…_

When Mother called the session to an end and commanded the girls to take their places on the floor and practice what they had just seen, Natasha saw their gazes flickering to her. The light in many of their eyes was one she recognized well. She wondered how many of them were promising themselves that they would spar with her one day, that they would be her one day….

 _And so we go in circles, 'round and 'round._

III.

Getting information was one of her primary functions, so finding out where he'd disappeared to took only minimal effort. She picked her target, Petrov, a functionary in the command office, one who liked to stare at her ass when he thought she wasn't paying attention, and employed her strategy of perching said ass on the edge of his desk, giving him a small grin, and requesting a surveillance record Soldat required for an upcoming mission that she had volunteered to deliver. Then she reaped her reward.

Petrov had fought to keep his eyes on her face instead of on the curves he had ogled semi-surreptitiously so many, many times. In her peripheral vision, she actually saw the fingers of the hand near where she was sitting contract as though he were thinking of grasping something. Her little smile grew more luscious.

 _Because that would be the last thing you ever took hold of with that grubby little paw, Petrov. Better save it for whatever private nocturnal duties you've given it._

He'd finally raised the hand to push his glasses back up his nose before stuttering out, "That will not be necessary, Black Widow. That mission has been delayed. Orders came in for immediate deployment of the Asset to Kiev around midnight. This situation supersedes all previous schedules. Further orders will be given."

"I will await those instructions." And she'd pulled herself off that desk, swiveled on the ball of one foot, and put just a little extra swing in her hips, the tiniest bit of burlesque strut in her stride as she'd left.

 _Might as well get the full show, comrade._

The carefully trained mask crafted by a lifetime of training by spies and killers never registered any of the turmoil that began to churn inside her.

IV.

He had been gone for nearly a month. She was assigned to two smaller jobs in that time, a sabotage mission aimed against British intelligence in East Germany, and the kidnapping of the child of a scientist who was considering defection. Command had deemed the scientist still too valuable a resource to eliminate, and they expected that holding his son as a hostage would ensure he remained as loyal as was necessary until such time as his value ceased.

She'd returned to the base late the night before. Her mission had not been so critical that Ivanov had left orders for an immediate debriefing, so she'd headed down to the high-ceilinged tiled shower room. She took her preferred location since she could choose from any of them, a place in the far corner which gave her a good line of sight on the door, and threw her towel over one of the two half-walls that formed the barrier of this stall. None of the walls were higher than her shoulders, none of the stalls broader across than one or two small steps. They served more to channel water to the drains efficiently than they did to provide coverage. Privacy in the Red Room was mostly another illusion if it bothered to be present at all, and a total disregard for body consciousness had been indoctrinated into them from her earliest memory. At this moment though, she took what she could get, lingered under the hot water, and tried to forget the sound of the little boy crying.

The following morning on her way to Ivanov's office, she paused at the branch in the corridor that led to the medical section, noted the flurry of activity as medics and techs moved in and out of the swinging door of the largest operating room at the end. As she stood wondering what was going on, Petrov came toward her reading a thick personnel file marked "classified." He was so absorbed in the contents that he almost walked into her. When he noticed her, she nodded toward the commotion.

"Busy day?"

"Perhaps slightly more excitement than usual."

Their conversation was interrupted by an increase in the noise from the operating room. She could hear muted yells followed by the sound of fists striking flesh and the crashing of metal instruments inside. Petrov twitched nervously, and he gave her the slightest smile.

"Apologies. The technicians will need the information in this file…." he murmured, ducking his head indicating he was about to leave. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw five large soldiers crash through a door from the lower level staircase and run directly into the operating room.

She laid a gentle hand on Petrov's arm. "It looks like it might be a good idea to wait another moment."

The dismay on Petrov's face indicated that he agreed with her, and he stood indecisively staring at the swinging doors.

"Perhaps you are right…"

"Petrov, what on earth is going on in there?"

There were more sounds of conflict, and one of the soldiers flew backwards through the doors and slid down the hall toward them. The man struggled to sit up, and she saw his hand flicker up to his shoulder, wrap around the handle of the scalpel that was embedded there, pull it out with a harsh curse. Commander Ivanov's voice could be heard yelling, but she couldn't understand the words with the rest of the din.

The doors parted again and a slender female tech stumbled out, white coat flecked with blood, hand over her mouth. This time, Ivanov's bellow was clear.

"PETROV! THE FILE, DAMN YOU. THE FILE!"

Petrov jumped as if goaded with an electric prod, and he sidestepped Natasha to race down the hall. She was half a step behind him. He flung himself through the doors, pushing them wide open, and she could see an assortment of bodies in lab coats and the black uniforms worn by troops at this facility on the floor in a writhing mass near an empty operating table. Near the pile of people, several individuals lay still. Blood pooled near one. Medical instruments and tools were scattered across the operating room floor. Gravity pulled the doors closed.

She was seconds from making contact with the doors herself when Mother melted out of the shadows of the nearest open door, grabbed her arm, pulled her to a stop.

"Natalia Alianovna, you will come with me to the training room."

"But certainly I can be of some service with whatever…"

Mother slapped her once, hard across the face.

"What were you told to do?"

Natasha drew herself upright, body settling into the perfect dancer's posture automatically, eyes turned toward the floor where blood from the injured soldier still marked the tile.

"Go with you to the training room, Mother. I apologize for my inappropriate suggestion. I thought only of the safety of the base."

Mother tilted her head.

"The Winter Soldier was seriously damaged while on mission. His handlers are attempting to prepare him for repairs, but he is being…uncooperative…."

She was aware that the woman was studying her, keen dark eyes that had been prying out secrets for as long as Natasha had been at the Red Room, taking in every subtle nuance and seeking reaction.

She kept her own expression bland, her eyes downcast. Years of practice and natural skill kept her breathing steady, her muscles loose. There was nothing to betray the impulse inside her to shove the woman aside and barge through the doors to his side.

"You could be of no possible assistance, Natalia. There is no threat to the facility."

Natasha nodded. Inside the operating room, she heard Ivanov reading something from a list and something else, the Soldier's voice raised in broken cursing.

 _But not his voice exactly. That voice I heard so long ago, that different him…. Those words are English._

"As you say."

Mother studied her for another minute and turned toward the training rooms. After the moment required to ensure she was the proper distance behind the older woman, Natasha, too, turned to follow. She could not resist stealing a look through the windows at the still struggling forms of those who were trying to restrain the Soldier. One of them shifted, rising to punch him savagely again and again, and she could see his face. He was covered in blood and agony, thrashing as he tried to throw off his attackers. There was a scream from one of them as he managed to free his biomechanical arm briefly, but it was almost immediately pinned down by two others. His eyes were wild and wide, met hers for a fraction of a second. She could see the pain and the fear in them, the absolute hopelessness. A tech with a syringe was looking for an opening to inject him with it.

She did not stop her motion, paced sedately after Mother as was expected, performed the training session for an intermediate group, and for all the external world knew, she was completely unaffected. When it was finished, she ate the midday meal with good appetite, went to the weapons range for practice and performed perfectly, came back for a briefing with one of the intelligence officers concerning a long-range strategy that was being formed and offered useful insight.

Part of her mind, however, never left that hallway outside the operating room. Just before she'd finished turning away, she'd seen his titanium hand clench and open under its restraint, reach toward her as much as was possible.

V.

She did not see him again for another month. She was told only that "the Asset is in reset," which she assumed to be some form of rehabilitation for his injuries. There was no one to ask, and although she found excuses which put her in the medical wing, she saw no trace of him there anywhere.

One day, she showed up for a late-afternoon scheduled training session to find him standing in the center of the area. He was paler, thinner than he'd been, gaunt in the cheeks, dark shadows emphasizing the storm grey eyes that flickered toward her without interest.

 _Without seeing her._

That was when she realized that "reset" was not rehabilitation at all.

Mother finished her lecture to the trainees and commanded the two of them to begin the exhibition. The fight that followed was one that the trainees would talk about for months.

VI.

She felt as though she'd had something important taken from her, and she was furious. She had seen him like this before, this _difference_. She hadn't forgotten what it had cost her the last time.

When he came at her, she moved to jump over him. The titanium arm grabbed the back of her uniform and hurled her backwards hard. She managed to get a hand down, turn a free fall into a controlled tumble and ended in a crouch. The gasps from the audience watching did not register at all.

He was already advancing on her, already drawing the long blade from his hip, spinning it nimbly in his right hand just before he slashed with it parallel to his forearm. She'd seen him do that maneuver a hundred times, a thousand, and she rolled to the side to dodge the blade, sprang up behind him, and climbed him as nimbly as any cat up a tree. She had drawn a thin garrote wire from her wristband even as her thighs tightened around his neck, looped it across his throat, and was seconds away from pulling it home when his silver hand slipped under the deadly wire and stopped its progress. He spun the knife again, changed its angle as he prepared to plunge it into her leg.

She shifted her entire body mass backwards, hard, flipping them both toward the ground. She knew from experience such a move would snap a regular man's neck.

She also knew he was not a regular man.

He fell as she'd intended, but instead of allowing her to continue her motion which would get her free of him, his hands grabbed her legs as they moved and kept her pinned there so her body hit first, taking most of the shock of the landing. He was rolling, the segments of the titanium arm whirring as it adjusted to give more power, and he sent her sprawling as he rose.

She was up on her knees in seconds, and she kicked backwards, making connection with his abdomen. She could not say she was sorry to hear his soft grunt of pain. Anger was driving her, anger with him, anger with whoever had done this to him, anger with the world that allowed memories to be altered and required children to learn to kill. He stumbled back slightly. Her respite was only momentary, but she used it to come back up to a guarded standing position.

The trainees watching were whispering to each other, running commentary on every move, every possibility. Mother did not stop it. Part of the training was learning to spot patterns in combat, after all….

They closed on one another, and it became a contest of speed and brutality. She was not as strong as he, but what she lacked in force, she made up for in other ways. She knew she must not let him get her in a grappling position, so she danced back and forth before him, behind him, getting in strikes where she could, taking what came as a consequence.

She pulled a slim blade of her own, feinted and struck at his right arm, managed to open a shallow cut down it before he knocked her hand away. Blood trailed across the contours of his forearm.

She overextended on a lunge, and he struck her backhanded across her face. She felt her nose begin to bleed, pressed her tongue briefly against the split that had opened up in her lip, and her rage boiled over.

With a savage cry, she swung up and around him quickly and threw him headfirst at the concrete floor. This time, she rode him down on purpose, and when he caught himself as she'd expected on his strong arms, she grabbed his hair with both hands, and used all of her strength to slam his head down, once, twice.

Mother's sharp command to stop cut through the air, and she froze.

She untangled her hands from his hair and rolled to the side, breathing hard. He still lay on his stomach, but he rolled his head slowly, slightly so he was able to look at her. His eyes traveled over her face, over the blood smeared across her mouth from his blow, and met hers briefly.

 _He's…there…again. He sees me now._

The two of them pulled themselves to standing attention as Mother picked apart the combat with the trainees, asking them questions designed to test their strategy and their recall. She did not look at the Soldier and he did not look at her. Blood continued to drip sluggishly from her cut lip, from the wound on his arm, from a dozen other cuts and abrasions of varying severity. Neither deigned to notice.

Mother did.

"Go and get yourself cleaned up, Natalia. Your duty schedule for the evening has been cleared."

When she was released from the training room, he remained to continue the work with the trainees.

* * *

 **Leave a little something in the tip jar as you go folks.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Let's earn this M rating, eh? Order up, folks. Key lime pie. (In other words, very M. If you don't like that, I'd skip this bit and wait for the next one.)

* * *

 _Do I move you, are you willin'  
Do I groove you, is it thrillin'  
Do I soothe you, tell the truth now  
Do I move you, are you loose now  
The answer better be (Yes, yes)  
That pleases me_

 _Are you ready for this action  
Does it give you satisfaction  
Are you hip to what I'm sayin'  
If you are then let's start swayin'  
The answer better be (Yes, yes)  
That pleases me_

 _When I touch you do you quiver  
From your head down to your liver  
If you like it let me know it  
Don't be psychic or you'll blow it  
The answer better be (Yes, yes)  
That pleases me_

 _~ "Do I Move You" by the incomparable Nina Simone_

* * *

I.

She stood under the hard spray, feeling every bruise and scrape. Once again, she had the showers to herself. Everyone else was still occupied with whatever else their day rotation required, so for the time being, anyway, she had the luxury of being able to drop her mask a minute. She needed whatever small amount of time and space she was allowed so she could try to put herself back together again. Her body was healing itself thanks to the serum they had "enhanced" her with – _another of their lying words –_ when she was selected as the Black Widow. Most of the smallest wounds were scabbed over. Her mouth still felt sore, and generally she felt…

… _like I was hit by a truck. Or a charging bull elephant. Or maybe just a soldier/assassin with a fucking silver metal arm._

The soap stung as she worked on cleaning the blood and dirt off her body, and she hissed as it made contact with a wide shallow scrape near her elbow that was still open. She turned that arm under the water briefly and watched the soap and blood slither down past her wrist and fingertips.

Something about that passage drained the last of her energy, and all she could do was sit down, pull her legs up tight, and rest her forehead against her knees. The water continued to rain down over her, and if some of what was going down the drain was mixed with saltwater, nobody would ever know.

Perhaps it was her weariness. Perhaps it was the white noise of falling water that drowned out any quiet clues that might have come to her. In any case, she had no warning that she was not alone until the fingers lightly closed over her shoulder.

Panic flared inside her, but two things stopped her attacking. The first was that the hand that touched her was not of flesh. The second was the low murmur of a name she had not thought to hear again, at least not from his mouth….

"Natasha…"

VIII.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. He'd discarded the heavy boots and black tactical jacket that he'd sparred in earlier, but he still wore the black pants and simple cotton tank. With no regard to the remaining clothing, he lowered himself to sit beside her, his back against the wall the shower head was attached to. The dampening fabric of the combat pants brushed against her foot and ankle as he slowly stretched out his legs.

For a long time, neither said anything. The hissing of the water was the only sound as it washed over them both.

"You went away," she said in a small voice.

He grunted. "But I think…I think you helped me come back."

She smiled just a little, rested her forehead again against the forearm draped across the tops of her knees. "Cognitive recalibration," she murmured.

"What?"

She tapped her fingertip against her temple. "We'll call it cognitive recalibration. It fits with all the other Red Room jargon."

His brow furrowed slightly, obviously not following the turn the conversation had taken, and she shook her head and sighed. Another period of silence fell, but it was not uncomfortable. She had never been uncomfortable with his silences, only with the distances to which he was sometimes flung… She turned her head to look at him.

He was studying her intently, storm blue eyes traveling over her still split and swollen mouth, the cut high on her cheekbone that hadn't closed. His eyes skimmed over her forearms where they were crossed atop her knees, noted each bruise, each still healing gash, watched the progress of a drop of blood from the cut near her elbow trailing down. He took in the discoloration along her shins from making and blocking strikes, the large purple-black blossom on her shoulder caused by a direct strike slipping through, the smaller one on the side of her calf where he'd connected with a kick.

He was in only slightly better circumstances, and she knew that much of that was because of the stronger, wilder strain of the enhancement serum that burned inside him. She noted the cut on his forearm was still slightly open, washing his pale skin in pinks as the water took the blood away, that around his neck were the faintest traces of old yellow bruises, injuries he'd received when she'd thrown him down already almost gone.

She'd been seen unclothed by more people than she ever bothered to consider. She'd had teachers, both male and female, in using her sexuality as a weapon, lessons that had involved positions and activities far more lascivious than two tired and battered warriors sitting on a tile shower floor. She'd done things on mission that made their current activities seem vestal pure. She wasn't sure, however, that she'd ever felt as naked in any of those situations, ever been as aware of herself or of another person as she became at that exact moment.

He raised his hand, lightly ran one fingertip down the side of her calf, pausing to circle the edges of the bruise he'd given her there. She couldn't quite stop the shiver that passed through her despite the heat of the water. She saw him notice the goosebumps that raced over her skin, and he looked up at her through those thick, dark lashes.

 _If there is any such thing as sin, it has to be one to have eyes like that, to look at a woman like that…._

"Natasha," he murmured again. It one word, but it was the only one she wanted to hear. She unfolded her arms, reaching for him at the same time he sat up and reached for her.

II.

He pulled her onto his lap, and she came willingly, straddling his narrow hips. She leaned in for the kiss she was starving for, but he cupped her face gently, stopped her, ran the pad of his thumb against her swollen bottom lip. There was a question in the look he gave her.

Her answer was to open her mouth wide enough to suck his thumb into its heat.

He inhaled sharply at the feel of her tongue sliding along the digit and pulled his hand away, leaning down to take her mouth with his own. She sighed softly at the feeling of his mouth on hers, his strong body beneath her, the cool metal of his titanium hand slipping up her naked back to hold her more tightly against him. Every touch was gentle, slow, the kisses long and deep. His right hand found her thigh, stroked over the curve of her derrière, glided lightly up across her ribs to cup her breast, and she arched into the his palm, breaking their kiss.

His mouth moved to the curve of her shoulder while he toyed with her nipple. The sensation of the water cascading over their bodies was a complement to his touch. He pinched it between his fingertips, rolled it, and she felt his smile against her collarbone when she her nails sank lightly into the back of his neck in response. Then he was leaning her back slightly against the firm support of his left arm so he could lave water drops from the aroused peak his fingers had teased. His eyes found hers and held them as his tongue worked. Her fingers fisted in his hair when he gently applied his teeth to her before beginning to suckle deeply.

It had been months now since those stolen kisses in the dark of the training room, but her need for him rose as sharply as if no time at all had elapsed. That she could not feel all of him, could not touch all of him as he was touching her became an intolerable fact, and she reached for the hem of his sodden tank and pushed him back long enough to pull it off, toss it behind her where it landed with a wet slap against the floor beyond the stall. He slicked his long wet hair back from his face and reached to pull her back to him, but she pressed a fingertip firmly against his sternum, and he subsided against the wall behind him again with a little smirk as she ran her eyes over his bared body.

"You've seen all this before, little spider," he murmured.

And it was true. She had. They'd had occasion in training and on missions for her to see him shirtless as he changed quickly or prepared to dispose of battle-stained gear, for him to see her in her undergarments or less through the scope of his rifle as she'd lured their prey into a kill situation. But in those situations, they had been impersonal, two tools rattling around in their handlers' kits. Now she was _seeing him._

 _And he is beautiful to behold._

Water from above continued to flow across them both, each rivulet drawing her eye to another aspect of his body. He was muscled, not bulky, as befit someone of his agility and skill set. The contours of his arms were powerful, defined, strong, not absurdly bulging. _Let the others work themselves into musclebound oxen. He is the tiger in the shadows_. The titanium fusing with his body across his left deltoid should have looked unnatural, but for her, it was simply a part of him as any other, sleek, strong, deadly. And as she watched the path the water took across the ridges of his abdomen, she smiled and slowly followed it down his chest with the tip of the finger she'd been using against his sternum to hold him back. "Perhaps. Doesn't mean a girl can't still enjoy looking, right?"

Those hard beautiful muscles clenched as her finger skimmed down, down, circled his navel, teased the trail of dark hair that started just above the waist of his pants. "Temptress," he breathed, leaning forward to kiss her again.

She laughed softly against his mouth. "You don't like it? I could always stop if it's bothering you…."

"Oh, it's bothering me, Natasha, but I'm pretty sure stopping isn't an answer." His voice was rough, low, his beautiful lips turned up in more of a smile than she had ever seen, and his hand wrapped around hers, pressed it lower until she felt the hard bulge of his cock under her palm. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking and squeezing through the wet fabric, reveling in his reaction as he grunted, hips bucking sharply.

Suddenly, they were both in motion. Her hands were nimbly undoing his fly and she raised herself on her knees enough for him to shove his pants down and free himself from them. She hooked them with her foot and pushed them the rest of the way off.

Resettling herself across his thighs, she reached down between them to resume her caress unhampered by clothing, learning the length of his shaft, reaching lower to caress and cup. The natural heat of his skin warmed her as he pulled her closer, mouth hungry against hers, their injuries long forgotten by them both. He slipped his hand down her belly to the juncture of her thighs, skillful fingers stroking over her swollen flesh again, again, until she shuddered, whining into the kiss.

He shifted his hand, slipped a finger deep inside her, pressed his thumb against the sensitive bud of her. She retaliated by changing her grip to tease the slick, swollen head of his erection, and his head fell back.

"Natasha," he murmured, something needy and desperate in his tone.

 _And wasn't that erotic? The assassin, the sniper carved from stone, cold as Russian winter, hot and hard and wanting underneath her…._

His hands cupped her hips as she rose, positioned herself against him. Her hands slid into the long hair at the base of his neck, and she caught his gaze with her own for just a moment of hesitation.

 _Because I only get to feel him for the first time once._

And she slid down, sheathing him fully, savoring the sensation and the echo of it chasing across those blue-grey eyes, watched them react as she began to move.

They'd wanted each other far too long for it to last very long after that. He began to rock beneath her, and his hands bit into her hips, shifting her angle slightly so that every stroke hit a sensitive place deep inside her. Faster than she could have believed she was leaning down to bite his shoulder to keep from screaming as her entire body clenched. She felt his hips buck hard once, twice, and the third time she felt the heat of him exploding inside her, watched him bite his bottom lip as he came, head falling back against the tile, eyes falling closed.

She fell forward across his chest. He was still half-hard inside her, subsiding, and for long minutes, she could do no more than lie there, hot water streaming over her back, the Soldier's hot body beneath her, hot seed inside her. Neither moved as their breathing began to calm except for his fingers stroking small circles in the small of her back, and her fingertips tracing edges of the red star on his left arm.

Finally, some sense of self-preservation returned to her. At any moment, someone might come in. The sounds from the building around them had settled into their evening hum, and both knew that at some point, some of the other agents might come in to wash away the day's labor as she had.

Reluctantly, she pulled herself off him and stood. He watched her graceful movements, and his eyes grew hot again, his body showing renewed interest as he reached for her hand.

"There is probably a little more time," he purred.

She twined her fingers with his for a moment, and shook her head, smiling all the same. He unfolded from the floor and wrapped his arms around her, tilted her head up to meet his kiss. It was sweet and hungry, intended to persuade, as was the slow stroke of his hand down to cup her and lift her slightly against him.

"Who is to say that you can satisfy me with only a _little more time?_ Arrogance. _"_ But she wound her legs around his waist anyway….

He shifted her back against the wall, and thrust into her in one hard motion. Her breath caught, and he brought his mouth up to her ear, traced the shell of it with the tip of his tongue, murmured, "Not at all, Natasha. Skill. Just skill."

And he proceeded to demonstrate.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** The reviews I've received are so encouraging! I'm glad you are enjoying this. My posting pace will probably be a little slower for the next two weeks because life, but I'll get back at it as soon as possible.

* * *

 _Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby_

 _Edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley_

 _Through the middle of my soul_

 _At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet_

 _And a freight train running through the middle of my head_

 _Only you, can cool my desire_

 _Oh, ho ho, I'm on fire_

 _Oh, ho ho, I'm on fire_

 _Oh, ho ho, I'm on fire_

 _~ from " I'm on Fire" by Bruce Springsteen ( and if you've never heard the wonderful bluegrass version by the DeLorean Sisters, I also highly recommend it for a completely different spin on this song)_

* * *

I.

They'd left the showers separately, each of them returning to their in-base quarters. She'd slipped into the loose cotton pants and top she slept in when her door had opened and Mother had walked in.

Natasha quickly came to attention, eyes vaguely focused on the pattern of concrete blocks in the wall ahead of her.

For a long moment, the other woman simply stood and studied her. Natasha did not turn her head or move.

Mother strode forward, took Natasha's wrist, pulled her arm out to inspect the healing progress of her cuts. She evaluated the almost healed split lip. Finally, she spoke.

"I see you are almost well, Natalia Alianovna. You sustained quite a little bit of damage today. I was asked by Commander Ivanov to make sure that you were healing."

"I am, Mother. Thank you for your concern."

The older woman looked at her again, studying her face a moment longer. Then she turned to go, but at the door, she paused.

"You fought well today, Natalia. You were a credit to your training. However, I would remind you to have a care when dealing with the Asset. Remember that you have not seen all that he is capable of…."

"Yes, Mother," Natasha murmured.

Mother did not look back, did not acknowledge the soft comment. Her final comment drifted back to Natasha all the same.

"…and you should be grateful for that."

Natasha stood staring at the door for a long time after it had closed behind the director of the Red Room wondering what to make of those words.

II.

They were not fools, and they had been forged by one of the greatest intelligence machines the world had ever spawned. They knew what was at stake, knew how to hide things they did not wish to be seen. Therefore, when they reported for the morning briefing the next day, they comported themselves as they always did. He was silent, still, distant. He stood to himself and acted as though he were completely oblivious to the nervous flutterings of the support staff around him. She stood at attention until told she could do otherwise, then draped herself in the folding chair in front of the commander's desk after. They looked at each other neither more nor less than they usually did, spoke to each other much the same.

But in those everyday glances and conversations, even though her face was impassive and his was set in its usual slight scowl, each could see something of last night reflected in the other's eyes, if only briefly.

It was enough.

The mission that had been so long delayed by other circumstances was reintroduced. Ivanov ordered them to set themselves up in a faraway outpost as a young couple newly married. Their apartment would be one floor down from an official there who was almost certainly selling secrets to the Americans. They were to confirm whether or not it were true, and if it were, they were to discover as much about and disable as much of the foreign network as they could before making a spectacularly bloody example of the official. By its very nature, the mission would be a long one.

"You shall have to be less rigid when we are among our neighbors," she told him, weaving her arm through his as he reluctantly bent it for her and leaning against the hard hidden silver of his left bicep as they left the briefing room and walked down the hall toward the agents who would outfit them for the job. "Nobody would ever believe we are newlyweds like this. You must be a better actor."

It took him a moment to respond. She had the feeling that he was pulling the response from a seldom-tapped source inside him. _He still isn't used to banter. Nobody banters with the Winter Soldier. Who would dare? The thought made her smile. Except for me…._

"They will merely think we are not a love match. Not everyone who marries does so for love."

"Are you saying you do not find me loveable? And not to bias your answer, but remember I do know how to kill a man in sixteen different ways with my index finger."

He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye, brow arched.

"Only sixteen?" He made a dismissive sound.

When looked at him with a completely solemn expression and raised her free hand, index finger extended, she saw that all-too-rare smile, brief, there and gone.

"No need for coercion. Rest assured, I find you as loveable as I'm sure you find me, little spider."

III.

The apartment had already been set up, all the false pieces of their false lives moved in for them ahead of time, and they arrived late in the evening with a few suitcases in a vehicle marked as a taxi as if they'd just come from the last train of the night. No one had seen them enter.

Now the curtains were pulled, and the Soldier was absorbed in disassembling one of the guns they would carry to check its workings to his own satisfaction when she came to stand beside him.

"This will never do," she murmured softly.

He did not pause in his task, lifted a piece to the light to look at it in more detail. "What particularly about me is inappropriate to you now?"

"Your appearance."

He lowered the component to the tabletop, looked at her for the first time, eyes narrowing. "In what way does my appearance offend you?"

She lifted a hand toward his face, had it caught in a reflexive restraint before it got close enough to touch him. The reaction was the result of too many years full of too many hands that had only hurtful intentions. Even with her, even after what they had shared together, that stormy gaze was wary. They froze for a moment, and she pushed forward gently, gently against his grip. He did not release her wrist, but his expression softened somewhat and he allowed her movement. Her fingertips grazed the dark fall of hair that reached nearly to his shoulders, hooked one strand and lifted it.

"This. No one wears his hair so long in this neighborhood. You are going to be an office worker, not a starving artist or a wild man. We must get you tidied up before we start to meet the neighbors and before you go in to your office tomorrow. We should have done it before we left the base."

They stared at each other, her fingers still curling that single lock, his grip still firm on her hand. She felt his thumb rub soft circles against her pulse, so brief and gentle that any observer would have thought it accidental. The look in his eyes said otherwise. Then he released her hand with a sigh.

"Make me as you would have me, then. Like any husband seeking peace, I suppose the only answer is to yield."

III.

She dug around in a drawer until she found some scissors and then took him into the small bathroom, dragging a low wooden stool from the living room with her. The height of the entire arrangement was such that she would be able to lean him back and wash his hair in the sink. He slipped off the button-down shirt he'd traveled in, tie and jacket long since discarded, and only sleeveless white cotton undershirt remained.

She could feel tension in him when he sat down, and she put her hands gently on his shoulders, saw the slightest flinch. As far as such things went, she knew he trusted her. More years than she cared to contemplate of abuse, some casual and thoughtless because they were somehow less than human to those who held sway over them, some recreational or entertaining for a sadistic handler, some designed to punish, some designed to break, were not something a person could lay down in a moment. She understood. She hadn't been at it as long as he had, but she knew what it was like to both crave and fear a gentle touch, to have that basic human need for contact become intrinsically wed to an automatic expectation for the pain. She'd known it since she was a small child chained in a dark room for disobedience listening to the skittering of rat claws on the cold damp floor. She'd known it forever. _This is what the Red Room does. This is why they can keep us. They take away or ability to connect with anything except our missions, with their orders for us. They make us blades that can think, guns that can reason. They make sure we are not fit for anything real humans have._

The thought made a sorrow she had ruthlessly repressed since her unloving and uncareful upbringing in that place well up inside her, and to quell it, she took a moment and concentrated on kneading the muscles at the base of his neck. He made a soft sound and bent forward across his knees to allow her to continue, so she took that as an invitation and worked her way up and down his back, strong hands finding pockets of tension and patiently loosening them.

"Better?" she murmured after a while.

He nodded, reached up and took her hand, held it gently.

"Ready now?"

He sighed, brought her hand to his lips briefly, and sat up.

"As much as is possible."

"What's that line from Macbeth? 'If it is to be done, let it be done quickly….'"

She cut on the water, adjusted the taps so the temperature would be comfortable.

He smiled, that ephemeral, lopsided quirking of his mouth she was growing addicted to.

"All that training in classics so you can understand important English-language literature references, and that's the thing you remember? You only like that play because of all the knives, plotting, and bloodshed," he said he leaned back.

She flicked a few drops of water across his face.

"True. Now be still or we'll see some of that right here in this bathroom."

IV.

Washing his hair was an unexpected pleasure. She found shampoo among the things that the apartment had been stocked with, and after his hair was thoroughly wet, she worked it through, fingers continuing their previous massaging against his scalp. He kept his eyes closed, but she felt him leaning into her touch. _Like any cat wanting to be rubbed. I don't even think he knows he's doing it._

It was a moment ripe for teasing him, but somehow, suddenly she didn't feel so inclined. In fact, there was nothing funny about it at all anymore. Touching him this way, watching the simple peaceful pleasure on his face was making her think of the two of them in the shower after, using soap and cloth to smooth away the last of the battle together….

 _No. This is not the time for that sort of thing. We are in the middle of something else. Pull yourself together, Natalia._

When she had his hair clean, she draped a towel around him and moved to stand in front of him, drawing the scissors off the counter with a noisy motion.

 _So he knows they're coming now. It doesn't do to sneak up on people like us with something sharp in one's hands…._

His body stayed loose, but he opened one eye and studied her, the scissors in her hand.

"Try not to scalp me, bloodthirsty woman."

She smiled and brought the blades together with a quick snipping sound.

"No promises, Soldat."

V.

It was more intimate than she had anticipated. She had to stand pressed against his sides, brushed against his strong arms and legs to get the right angles. She combed her fingers through his hair again and again to separate it into segments for cutting, stroking her fingers near his temple and neck to lift the locks there, and gradually more and more of his dark hair covered the towel, the tile of the floor.

He remained relaxed, eyes closed. His breathing was regular and even. The only sign that he wasn't perfectly at ease was the tiny slow movement of his thumb back and forth, back and forth against the seam of his pant leg.

And then the last snip sounded.

"All done. Sit up and let me make sure everything looks right."

He sat up, opened his eyes, looked at her, and she felt like she had been struck directly by lightning. The angles of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw were revealed now. She'd found him absurdly beautiful with his long hair, but with it cut short…..

 _I saw a painting by some Baroque artist in a French museum once. It was an archangel, sword drawn, face filled with glory and danger. That's the closest I can come._

"Did you bother to leave me any?" He ran his right hand through his hair in a testing motion.

She removed the towel from around his shoulders, lifted the small hand mirror from the vanity, handed it to him without comment. He took it, and when he saw his reflection, she saw his hand clench on the handle. The color drained out of his cheeks, and his eyes grew wide and serious.

"You don't like it?" she asked softly.

For a long moment, he didn't seem to be able to answer her. He brought his hand up again, ran his fingertips against it.

"Soldat?"

His eyes flicked to hers, back to the image in the glass, and he slowly shook his head. The short-haired reflection in the mirror did the same.

"No, Natasha.…it isn't that. I just….when I saw it, I…I think…it's like something I remembered…or maybe it was just something from a dream…"

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to do anything that might…"

"No. Don't be sorry."

His eyes looked a little distant, a little lost as he turned his head slightly, looking at himself from different angles. She saw the moment when he forced whatever it was away. He lowered the mirror and gestured to his face vaguely.

"Will I do now for you, wife?" His smile was brief as morning dew, something haunted still in his stormy eyes.

She reached out, unable to resist running her hands through the still-damp fall of his hair just once more. Her fingertips lingered.

Then his eyes were on her and not the mirror. He was watching her face, watching the reactions race across as she looked at him, as she touched him.

"Yes," she murmured. "You're adequate, I suppose….."

"Only adequate, Natasha?" he said, something hungry and fragile at the same time in his voice. He reached for her, pulled her across his lap and into his arms. "Never let it be said I was satisfied with that." And he leaned down to claim her mouth.

* * *

Any picture of Sebastian Stan with short hair you might see on Pinterest or Google is what Nat is looking at. It's most definitely First Avenger Bucky looking at her now. Enjoy this bit? If so, let me know… I am loving the questions and comments. There may be pie forthcoming next chapter. I haven't decided yet. If anyone feels the need to place an order, you can use the box below for that. (EDITED because FFN ate all my italics. Bad, bad FFN)


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N** : This chapter gets a little bit M-ish toward the middle. If you would like to avoid that, stop when you see Roman numeral II and skip down to III. Otherwise, carry on…

* * *

 _Ramblers in the wilderness we can't find what we need  
We get a little restless from the searching  
Get a little worn down in between  
Like a bull chasing the matador is the man left to his own schemes  
Everybody needs someone beside em' shining like a lighthouse from the sea_

 _Brother let me be your shelter  
Never leave you all alone  
I can be the one you call  
When you're low  
Brother let me be your fortress  
When the night winds are driving on  
Be the one to light the way  
Bring you home_

 _~ from "Brother" by needtobreathe_

I.

Natasha woke up to the sound of heavy rain and sensation of an empty bed. Her internal sense of time told her it was early yet, and when she looked at the luminous dial of the clock beside the bed for something more precise, there were hours yet before they had to get up and start pretending again.

She rolled over, looked for him, and found him standing near the large window that opened onto their tiny balcony. He was still, leaning against the frame and staring out at the rain. He'd thrown on a pair of loose pajama bottoms when he'd risen, and on top of the dresser beside him was the small mirror from the bathroom. The fingertips of his right hand rested beside it as if he had only recently put it down or as if he might be going to pick it up again at any moment.

 _Perhaps I should leave him alone. But….alone with what? What ghost did he see in that glass?_

Then she realized what had awakened her. He was flexing the titanium fingers of his left hand over and over, causing the servos inside to whir and the plates on the exterior to shift. It was a soft noise, almost lost in the susurration of the rain, but the distinct tone of the moving metal hadn't quite been hidden thanks to her serum-enhanced senses. His hand was in constant motion, a sign of his continuing internal agitation.

 _And I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know he's doing it._

For someone who was totally in control of every movement and expression as he was, that soft flexing of his fingers was as large a tell as if he'd had a flashing neon sign saying, "PROBLEM!" suddenly hung over his head with a brass band playing a march alongside. She rose, drew the soft blue extra blanket off the end of the bed, and wrapped it around her as she crossed the small room to his side. She said nothing, just walked up next to him, slipped herself against his body, forcing the cool silver arm to stop its motion to embrace her.

He looked down at her briefly, summoned up the vaguest traces of a smile, turned his eyes back to the glass in front of him. Standing there now, she could see that an odd combination of light from the street beyond and the falling rain had turned the windowpane into something of a mirror in its own right. He wasn't staring at the weather. He was staring at his own slightly wavering reflection.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, leaned her head against his body, metal and flesh, and listened to the rain and his powerful heartbeat. It was fast, even for their serum-enhanced metabolisms. She could feel the slightest tremor in him, and so she turned her head to kiss him over his racing heart. His hand at her hip squeezed her just a little in acknowledgement.

"You know you could tell me, right?"

He looked at her, brow furrowing in confusion. "Tell you what?"

She gestured toward their reflections in the window, placed her hand over his still fidgeting fingers to still them. "This. I mean, it's okay not to talk about it, too. I just want you to know I would listen to…whatever..."

He sighed and ran his hand roughly through his hair, his face filled with frustration and irritation.

"What is there to talk about?"

She shrugged against him. "Anything you like. Or nothing. Either way, I'm here."

He gave one more searching look at the window and seemed to make a decision of some kind. He turned them away from the rainy night and back toward the bed. She lay down still wrapped in the loose blanket, scooted over, and he followed, pulling her against him. For a long time, he simply stroked her hair gently, over and over. She let the silence stay between them, and she had begun to think he had chosen not to say anything at all when he finally spoke.

"Do you remember anything of your life before the Red Room?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe. There's a flash of a woman with red hair like mine. It comes and goes. When I was younger, I dreamed of her all the time. Not so much now. I think I probably made her up."

His hand continued to smooth over her hair, the gesture soothing.

"I wasn't there then….I had not yet been assigned to the Red Room when they acquired you. I do not know if they lied for you and told your family that being chosen was a great honor, if they bought you from some orphanage, or if they simply stole you…."

She shifted slightly against him. The topic was… _uncomfortable_ , she decided. Like any child, she'd once hungered to know where she came from, had dreamed of someone coming to rescue her from the awful place she'd been confined to, but again and again, those dreams had been brutally dismantled.

 _You start to learn that nobody is coming to save you. There is no strong hero who is going to kick down the door and carry you to safety. If you want rescue, you have to provide it for yourself._

But still, the dreams of that red-haired woman came to her sometimes, and the morning after, she was always sad, a little hollow inside, and always, always just a little more savage than necessary in practice on days after she'd had the dream.

 _This conversation isn't really about me, though. This is just his way into something he is struggling with. So…_

"What about you? Do you remember anything from before?"

His hand stilled, and a shiver ran through him, then softly, so softly,

"Maybe."

She waited. The rain fell.

"I have the same dream over and over. There's a…train… Or at least I think it's a train. There are tracks for it sometimes, shining below…. Whatever it is, it's black and it's going so fast. It's more like a missile than a train sometimes. Every time, I know I have to get to it. It's important. And then I'm jumping off this cliff and _flying_ toward it…." He laughed bitterly. "I told you it doesn't make any sense….."

"Did I say that?"

"No. But that doesn't stop it from being true. Sometimes there are little changes, but the key elements stay the same. Always the train, always the flying. And always I am so _cold_ …." He shivered again, and she hooked the heavy comforter on the bed, dragged it up over both of them even though the room was not uncomfortable.

"So you're flying toward this train…"

He shook his head. "It makes _no sense,_ Natasha. It is ridiculous."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Is there more?"

He paused a long moment before continuing. "Yes. There is a man with me there, always. He is also flying toward the train. "

"What man?"

"….I don't know who he is, but in the dream, it feels like he's someone I've always known, like someone I trust…. His uniform is a blue like this." His fingertips plucked at a corner of the blue blanket she had wrapped around her. "Royal, but maybe more faded somehow, and with red…"

"You said uniform. Is he a soldier?"

"The best." The answer was the surest one he'd given, quick and without hesitation. "He's gotta be, right, because he always jumps off the cliff first. Sometimes I try to grab him, keep him from going…" The cadence of his voice was shifting somehow, something not quite polished and perfect Russian was sneaking into it….

"Perhaps you are remembering going into some battle? Maybe it isn't flying. Maybe it is…like a parachute?"

He made a noise that was neither agreement nor disagreement. It was a considering sound. She let him turn it over for a minute before gently prompting, "Do the two of you ever reach the train?"

The shivers took him again. "Every damn time. I don't wanna because I know something terrible is going to happen when we do…I don't know what, but I can feel it like…like a rock on my chest, like I can't breathe. Then it comes. It is a little different every time, one time there's a flash of light, another there is only suddenly a giant hole where I can see outside the train, like the walls melted away somehow, but what comes next is always the same. This wind comes howling in and is tryin' to rip me away from the train, from the man in blue. He reaches out a hand, and he is trying to get to me, trying to save me from the wind, but it's so hungry and so loud. He gets so close sometimes that I actually feel his fingers touch mine, but I know, I know every single time though that he won't make it. And then the fist of the wind closes over me, grabs me and throws me…. then the world spins and spins, and there is nothin' but pain and cold…." His eyes were far away again, empty.

She shifted and wrapped her arms around him tightly, pressing a gentle kiss against cheek, his jaw.

"I have you. Shh…"

 _Don't leave me again._

He returned the embrace so tightly that she knew she would have bruises where his left hand gripped her too hard. She ignored it, focused on holding him just as hard, hard enough for him to feel it instead of the phantom grip of the wind from his dream.

"I don't remember this all the time," he broke off suddenly, swallowed hard. His voice had changed again, the measured tones she knew dominant again. "They…Ivanov, the others…they have ways of taking it. Of taking everything. They hollow me out and pour other things in instead. The things they make me do, Natasha…." The last was a whisper.

"But the dream, it comes back after?" She asked, trying to understand and to pull him back to her again.

He nodded. "Something always digs it out of the hole they bury it in. There is no logic to it. It can be anything, anything at all that triggers it…."

She ran her hand soothingly down from his temple, across his cheek and jaw, and he turned to follow the touch.

"What brought it back this time?"

He burrowed his face in her neck and laughed bitterly.

"The haircut…. When I saw my face in the mirror after. I see myself in a reflection in the dream sometimes, or I'm outside my own body watching or…. Something. Anyway, I look like this except for…." He flexed the titanium hand against her, and she understood what he meant. "It is never there. The wind could not have taken me so quickly if it had been there…."

"So you remember this dream or memory now." He grunted affirmatively. "Maybe I can help you hold it this time."

He shifted so he could look at her more easily. "Help me? How?"

"Since I know about it now, too, even if…if they find it again and take it, I can hold onto it for you. Do you see?"

He considered it for a moment. "I can see that they will not like it."

She shook her head slightly, shrugged in that way she had that indicated it was of no importance to her what they thought.

"No," he said, more forcefully. "You don't understand what they are capable of. I know you think that…"

She pushed at his chest in disgust, rolled over, sat up on the edge of the bed. "Think about that statement for a moment. You are not the only one the Red Room has taken important things away from." The loose blanket she'd grabbed when she'd gone to join him by the door was still around her body, slipping down now to bare her shoulder. She reached up to pull it back over her in irritation, but his hand wrapped around hers, fingers intertwining with hers. She felt the warmth of his body against her back. His arm came around her, which she ignored. She did not push it away, but she did not yield to the temptation to lean back against him, either. After a moment, he spoke.

"It was wrong of me to have said it, Natasha…."

"Yes."

 _Yes, it was, you ass._

"You know more than anyone else how much the Red Room takes…"

"Yes."

 _How they take your past, my future, our present. My childhood and children. Your arm and free-will. Our bodies and mutual humanity. Yes._

"So you should also be able to understand that I won't willingly give them a reason to take more."

She softened slightly, turned to look at him over her shoulder.

"Soldat…"

That sardonic twisting of his lips again. "And now you will remind me of just how well you can take care of yourself, little widow….and you will be right to do so, of course…."

She shook her head, slipped her hand from his, turned on the bed to face him, placed her fingertips over his mouth to silence him.

"No. Now I will remind you that…perhaps…if you are willing, we might possibly take care of _each other_ sometimes."

For a long moment, he just looked at her, and slowly, slowly a spark of something bright and wild grew deep inside his eyes. His body language shifted slightly somehow. That painful little self-deprecating smirk he'd had slipped away. He pulled her back into his embrace, and this time, she came willingly.

"Devil take the hindmost and no matter what? That might cover an awful lot, little widow." His hands were skating up her sides, seeking the edges of the blanket.

"No matter what," she repeated firmly. "They can't take it from both of us. If you fall, if they…if they take things, I will have them safe for you. See?" Her hands were smoothing up his strong arms, one of flesh, one of cool metal, slipping around his neck, fingers sliding into his short hair.

He unwrapped her shoulder again, and he pressed his lips to it in a gentle kiss, soft, almost chaste. "Alright then. I'll have you, too…" And kissed her again in the curve where her neck met her shoulder, less sweetly, a flicker of tongue in it before he murmured against her, "Together _to the end of the line_ , Natasha…." Then she could feel his teeth, his tongue, as he bit softly, sucked and lapped, leaving a mark that she knew would be healed almost before he was through making it, but the sensation still had her pulling at his hair, holding him against her, a soft sound of need escaping her.

II.

Nimble fingers tugged the blanket away from her, and he lifted her with ridiculous ease over him as he rolled back. She couldn't help her startled laughter at the maneuver. Then he completed his roll and she was under him, the hot weight of him settling against her bare body. He was smiling, too, at her response, but their laughter died as his mouth found hers immediately, his tongue slicking in aggressively, hungrily against hers. She met him with equal desire, arching her body slowly under his, pressing herself against every plane.

He groaned and his hands found her hips, pressed her down again, pushing her back against the mattress. She made a sound of frustration.

"So impatient…" he murmured against her mouth.

"Yes," she growled. "Because we seem to have a pattern here in these moments. I am always naked, and you are always not…."

He laughed into the kiss.

"'S not fair, now that you mention it." He shifted, stood, untied the loose pajama bottoms, and let them slide down his legs to the floor. She reached for him as he lay back down, slipped back on top of her, his heavy erection pressing against her belly as he rose up to kiss her.

"Better?" he murmured.

She wrapped a leg around his waist, shifting beneath him so that the he slipped against her where she was wet and ready for him.

"You…tell… me," she said, her voice breathless between their kisses.

He made his own little growling sound as his hands found her hips, urged her to wrap her other leg around him. Then he braced himself on his forearms to move against her, slow, hard, grinding against the sensitive bud of her with each pass. Her head fell back, her eyes closed. Her hands caressed down his back as he thrust to try to pull him down, to get him where she needed him. Then his mouth was open over her breasts, first the right, then the left, as if he were trying to devour her. She moaned, twisting her hips against him digging lightly in with short nails. He made a short sharp sound in response.

"I need….need," she gasped, unable to finish the sentence.

"And so do I….need to know how you…" he murmured against her breast, and suddenly the delicious friction of him was gone. She looked down confused only to fall back against the mattress as if she'd been struck as he lowered his head between her legs and drew his tongue up her in a long, slow, lingering pass.

"Fuck….I knew it….sweet like... sugar candy," he groaned between little teasing licks that made her gasp, and then he set in to his task.

The sensation of his tongue lapping against her after the previous stimulation, the sight of his beautiful body kneeling between her thighs, made her writhe, buck against him as he slipped his hands beneath her hips to lift her to an angle more to his liking. She twined one hand in his hair, one in the forgotten blanket beneath her. He looked up at her, taking in her response with eyes gone thunderstorm blue, and as he lowered his head again, he muttered, "Want you to come for me, Natasha." Watching her reactions, he began to take her apart with long slow strokes of his tongue. When he slipped a finger inside her, she began to keen. When he started to suckle her, she exploded.

And then he was moving that big body back over her, filling her where she ached for him, his mouth against hers, drinking in her cries of pleasure. She could still taste herself on his lips and tongue, and she wrapped herself around him as he thrust hard, fast, relentlessly against her. He kissed her neck, whispered things hotly into her ear that made her cry out, the coil of sensation winding to its breaking point inside her again, and she gave herself up to it as he drove her to peak again before crashing over with her.

III.

The rain had stopped, and the first light of the new morning filtered in grey and watery. She was holding on to him, stroking abstract patterns lightly against his warm skin. Despite the exertions of the night, emotional and physical, she had not been able to find her own sleep. She'd been very close after when he'd pulled her next to him, wrapped her in his arms, sweat still sheening their bodies, but as her mind had begun to drift something that had been clamoring for her attention for quite some while was finally able to snap into place. Everything he'd said to her, all his words in passion, every endearment and obscenity, every command and verbal caress since that murmured phrase "to the end of the line" had actually been in English, that same strongly flavored English she'd heard him use in the training room so long ago, that she'd heard that horrible day they "reset" him.

* * *

 _Q: So why didn't she notice, Nemain? I mean, don't you think she would have noticed if he just suddenly started speaking English? Like, wouldn't that have been sort of a weird mood killer?_

 _A: Nope. Not per se. She was very busy. We should all be so busy._

 _Q: Seriously, though._

 _A: We know that she's totally fluent in English – and probably a jillionty-seven other languages – as a part of her Red Room training. She would be used to situations where there's a shift in what's being spoken. She had no trouble understanding him. She just wasn't expecting Brooklyn in the bed. Again. We should all be so busy, right?_

 **Review, people. It makes me write faster.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I am quite likely going off all plans, blueprints, canons, and marked paths. _Caveat Emptor_.

* * *

 _If you'll be my bodyguard  
I can be your long lost pal  
I can call you Betty  
And Betty when you call me  
You can call me Al  
Call me Al_

 _~ from "Call Me Al" by Paul Simon_

* * *

I.

She didn't say anything to him about his use of English when they got up to start the first day of their mission. She didn't understand it yet, and as such, she simply tucked it away with all the other secrets she carried around inside.

 _After all, what's one more?_

They still had several hours before they had to leave the apartment, but as always on such an occasion, there were last minute details that would need to be refined, equipment to check, stories to rehearse. As they dressed, their conversation bounced back and forth from point to point, both finding the familiar rhythm of their preparation.

"So at some point this morning, you will be called to a meeting in the office of the director, and that is where you will make a connection with command and receive updates on the situation…."

"And meanwhile, you will be…what? Cleaning the apartment? Mending my socks? Making something special for dinner?"

She snorted. "You wish. No, I am to present myself to the chair of the volunteer committee for ministry wives who just happens to be our new upstairs neighbor…"

"Imagine the coincidence."

"Yeah. Life's a funny, funny thing sometimes…"

He had on dark grey trousers and a white undershirt, but the neatly pressed button-down shirt he would wear still rested on its hanger because he was trying to pull on a long glove of scarred and mottled synthetic skin which would hide his titanium arm. As she put the finishing touches on her own appearance, she watched him in the mirror for a minute as he tried to manipulate the stubborn material. A regular black glove would be put on top of this over his hand, the official story being that he had been injured during a period of military service. It had happened quite heroically, of course, in some unmentionable and completely classified situation that had resulted in his appointment to this new government post. The image of harmlessness would be finished off with a cane.

 _As if he could ever be harmless in any situation, much less with a stick in his hand… People are fools not to be able to see it._

With a curse, he stopped, looked up, caught her watching him in the mirror.

"I thought wives were supposed to be helpful."

With a smirk, she rose, smoothed her hand over her skirt, and crossed the room to aid him.

"And I thought husbands were supposed to be good at fixing things. Stereotypes let you down every time, don't they?"

Nevertheless, she took hold of the glove. Together, they managed to get the disguise over the metal, but it was difficult even with two of them working together. She'd ended up having to have him sit on the stool of her vanity while she stood behind him and pulled with both hands to get it on. The effort involved was considerable. When she finished, she rested her chin on his shoulder a moment, and they both looked at the newly covered arm. He made a face of disgust as he turned it and looked at it from different angles.

"What? It offends your sense of natural beauty?" she teased.

"It's just the _feeling_ of it. The plates do not move as freely as they usually can, and it mutes my ability to receive sensory input as well…"

"But nobody expects you to be juggling knives today, Soldat. Your biggest task will be holding down a desk chair…which probably has no plans to attack you…"

His eyes met hers in the mirror. "Ah-ah. No more Soldat. From this morning on, we have to be the couple who lives here, in name and in deed."

A slow grin spread across her lips. "Are you telling me I get to give you names again? With your permission, yet? Because I have one or two I have been saving."

"Of course you do," he grumbled, but she saw the quick little smile. "I am telling you that you must call me _a name_ , the name the handlers have put on all our paperwork, and that I'll be calling you the same."

"Spoilsport."

He reached up and took the hand on his shoulder, brought it to his lips.

"I'll find ways to make it up to you."

She could see all sorts of promises there in his eyes. She arched an eyebrow, laced her fingers with his, leaned down and whispered against his ear, "I will hold you to that."

He smiled. "Do." He rubbed his thumb against the inside of her palm gently.

She made a little face and pulled her hand back from his. "But not with this glove on you won't. I see what you mean. It's sort of like real skin, but somehow…."

He turned around to look at her, all playfulness gone, mouth twisted in a bitter little smile. "It's so bad the touch of titanium is preferable? You'd rather have me touch you with…with the _weapon_ underneath instead? Come on, Natasha…."

She shrugged. "This…" she pointed to the rough, mottled surface of the glove, "this is just some lie we're telling. Here today, gone tomorrow." She leaned down and kissed the still-exposed metal of his shoulder. "No matter what else it is, _this_ is a part of you, really _you_. And I like _all_ of you."

He looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe her for a moment, like she was something that was somehow unreal. He studied her eyes, her expression carefully, searching for she knew not what, and then that softness from before returned as he smiled, shook his head, put his right hand behind her neck, and pulled her down into a kiss. After a moment, the reality of their timeline intruded, so she leaned back, rubbed her thumb across his lipstick-stained mouth, and sighed.

"If we keep this up, we will both be late."

"But we're newlyweds, right? They're always showing up late, leaving early…. I'd hate to fail to keep up our cover."

"You have an appointment that must be kept. And so do I."

He made a noise that was only an acknowledgement that she had spoken, not an agreement with her sentiment, and he pulled her back down. This time, she let herself sink into the kiss, enjoy it for just a moment before parting them again, pressing her hand lightly against his chest.

"Soldat," she whispered, resting her forehead against his as she tried to remind herself why she couldn't just pull him back to the bed…

The curve of his lips told her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he shifted to resume the kiss, but when she pushed at him again, he relented. She stood, and he followed, walking to the bathroom to get a cloth to clean away the lipstick still staining his mouth.

"Already you're forgetting mission protocol and calling me Soldat again. Must have been a better kiss than I thought…."

He dodged the balled-up socks she threw at his head, snatched them from the air as they sailed past him without turning around, soft laughter floating back to her.

"In all seriousness, who are we again? Did they finally decide?"

Their final documents had not been ready prior to their leaving base, and due to the lateness of their arrival and other distractions the night before, neither of them had looked at the specifics of them. They'd been given rough outlines before they left, but some procedural issue had prevented the fine details from being locked down. They knew the details of their backstories, knew their mission and their targets, knew even the family name they were traveling under, but their individual IDs had required last minute adjustment. She walked into the kitchen and took them out of the envelope, opened hers and looked at it.

"It appears I am Sokolov Anna Fedorovna."

He made a sound of acknowledgement, picked up his comb, and ran it through his hair to straighten it one more time.

She opened his, walked back toward the door of the bedroom as she studied it. "And you… you are Sokolov Yakov Morozovitch. I suppose they were being clever with your patronymic…."

She had not yet completely entered the room when she heard the clatter of the comb hitting the hard surface of the bathroom counter, heard him make a sound as if he had been punched. She quickly stepped toward the door of the bathroom to see what had caused the sound.

"Did…did you say _Yakov_?"

She checked the document again, held it out to him. "Yes. Yakov."

He took the identification card with one hand, the other still gripping the countertop. He studied the card intently for long moments, before looking back into the mirror at his reflection.

 _And this was the hardest part of being on mission with him, wasn't it? Sometimes, she felt like she had been sent to walk a minefield with no map. There were hidden pockets of danger everywhere, and no matter how good she was, no matter how careful, sooner or later, she was inevitably going to hit one…_

"Soldat?"

His head turned sharply, eyes narrowed at her as if he didn't know who she was for just a moment. Then he relaxed, shrugged, folded the document closed, and slipped it in his pocket.

"No. Not anymore. Yakov." He managed a half-smile, picked up the dropped comb, and resumed his preparations. She stood a minute longer in the doorway, uncertain of what to do or say, and settled for returning to the vanity and watching him over her shoulder in the mirror. There were no further incidents. Their conversation slipped back into the details of their upcoming day.

It was only after he had finished dressing, pressed a kiss to her cheek, gathered his briefcase and cane, and she went into the bathroom for her own last minute final touches that she noticed the cracks in the tile along the edge of the cabinet where his hands had gripped.

II.

At 8:30 that morning, she reported to the small, dingy office that served as the headquarters for the volunteer committee for the wives of the ministry. All the furniture was heavy, hard, and uncomfortable. The color scheme seemed to be composed of the greys, olive greens, blacks, and faded tans that the government seemed to think the only palette suitable for daily use.

 _Perhaps that's so all the red blood spilled can serve as a cheery accent…._

She waited in one of the less painful looking chairs for no longer than five minutes before being called into the director's office. The woman who met her was perhaps twenty years older, her dark hair starting to show signs of salt-and-pepper grey. Her handshake was firm, her manner polite.

"I am Irina Fedkin. You must be Anna Sokolov, our new member?"

"Yes. So nice to meet you."

"Please, sit down."

Natasha noticed that in this room, unlike in the rest of the office, the chairs were padded, upholstered. The desk, while still clearly military surplus, was in good repair, immaculately clean, the work surface an absolute hymn to organization with everything placed just so. Some plant sat on a cabinet behind it, twined up the wall to wrap around the small window frame, reaching for whatever sun it could find.

Irina offered Natasha tea, and when the ritual of cups had been accomplished, the two sat and took measure of one another.

"So your husband..."

"Yakov…"

"Of course. Forgive me. Yakov has been transferred to our little department?"

Natasha nodded, "Yes. We were so honored when the notification came. You may have heard that he was in a combat unit for many years, but after…. Well, such service was no longer possible."

Irina sipped her tea, "We have been given to understand that he was quite the hero."

Natasha carefully looked down, allowed something of a blush to come to her cheeks as if she were embarrassed by the praise. "No, comrade. He merely did his duty for the nation, as do we all."

The other woman made a thoughtful noise, nodding. "Of course. Of course. We also do our little part to serve here."

Natasha looked up and smiled. "I think you must. I have heard many wonderful things about the projects this committee has accomplished, so I am eager to take part."

"We do what we can to make the ministry more comfortable and productive, to take care of the small things so the ministers can worry about the large ones…. Let me tell you about some of the things we've been able to do…."

 _I'm nodding my head so much that it's a wonder it doesn't come off. And yet, this woman is just eating the attention up. I may be seasick before I can get out of here, but I should be her new favorite pet._

III.

Natasha took a long route home, running what errands were appropriate for a low-level ministry worker's wife. She bought food for their dinner, make contacts with their neighborhood, and then she made her last stop. The book shop's front was not more or less dingy than the rest of them on this street. When she entered, a small bell chimed over the door. The man behind the counter was smoking a cigarette and reading a party newspaper. He glanced up at her and then back down in disinterest. She filed through the shelves filled with editions of Lenin's writings, dictionaries almost as old as she was, histories of Soviet military campaigns and made her way to the counter.

"Excuse me, comrade, but I am looking for a very rare book. I wonder if you might have a copy?"

The grey-haired man took a drag from his cigarette, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and replied, "We try to do our best. What is the title?"

"It is a very old children's story called _The Spider and the Fly_. A moral tale, if you will." She smiled slightly.

The man studied her a moment, nodded. "I know the book you mean. It is possible that we have a copy in the back room. Would you like to look?" He gestured vaguely toward the small shadowy room seen through a narrow doorway.

"Thank you."

She turned and went through the door, continued to the back wall to what was apparently a closet, opened it, and stepped through.

IV.

Inside the hidden room, electronic equipment lined walls, spilled over onto tables, left very little space for the three people who were crammed in with all of it to move and work. They were long used to such conditions, though, and they sidestepped and shuffled with no sign of restriction.

 _Good thing I'm not claustrophobic._

A familiar rabbitty face looked up from the screen he'd been studying, glare on his glasses from the task light temporarily sheening the lenses and hiding his eyes. Petrov gestured vaguely in the direction of the chair across the desk from him.

"Mission status report?" He was preoccupied with whatever was on the screen.

"Primary contact established. I am now the darling of the volunteer committee. Fedkin can't wait to show me and my ever-so-heroic husband off. She will introduce me to the rest of the committee tomorrow, and she's having a gathering at their apartment Friday evening."

Petrov twisted a dial and grunted. "Good, good. All as expected. No problems then? The Asset is functioning within mission specifications?"

She thought for a moment about the odd reaction the Soldier had exhibited to the name Yakov.

 _Perhaps I should report it…_

Something held her back. Some deep-seated instinct whispered in her ear that whatever the problem might be, if indeed problem there were at all, she would handle it.

"No. As you said. Everything is as expected."

V.

The Soldier came home later than expected that evening, and he was laughing and talking loudly with someone as he opened the door. She heard the footsteps of the other person stumble slightly rounding the landing to go upstairs, and a male voice cursing. Just inside their door, the Soldier leaned heavily against the door, held up his cane, and called, "Ah, be careful, old man, or I won't be the only one needing one of these damn things." Laughter from the unseen man floated inside, and the Soldier lowered the cane, pushed off the door facing, and awkwardly limped inside.

"Hello, wife!" he said loudly, too loudly, just a little slurred.

The voice from outside came again, "Give her my apologies for rendering you useless for the rest of the evening, comrade." Raucous laughter followed.

Natasha gave the Soldier a studiously bland look, to which he replied with a bleary grin, and she walked toward the door to yell at the still-stumbling person beyond, "No more useless than usual, I assure you…."

"Ah, Anya, Anya, my little loving Annushka," the Soldier crooned, wrapping his right arm clumsily around her waist, knocking her slightly off-balance as if he were unsteady on his feet. "Don't be unkind."

She sighed the sigh of exasperated women dealing with drunk men everywhere, pushed the door closed, and felt his body language change. His sense of balance returned immediately, and he took a step forward, pinned her against the door. He dropped the cane in the umbrella stand next to the door, wrapped that hand around her waist, too, buried his face in the nape of her neck. She could smell vodka and soap and some scent that was just uniquely his own as he kissed her softly and sighed.

"Fourteen hours of that type of horseshit, Natasha," he whispered, "the last three of which I've spent in his office with him trying to outdrink me…."

She pushed back against him to get enough space to turn around. She slipped her arms around his neck. "But did he?"

He grinned. "Well, he certainly thinks so…." He shook his head and made a face. "Fucking hell, Natasha... you remember working as my spotter on that job with the mistress with the yapping dog and telling me I had the better part of things as the shooter?"

"Mmm-hmm…"

"Give me a stakeout in a snowdrift for six months, but this… You were right."

She smiled. "But that went without saying, though, didn't it?" And she stood up on tiptoe to kiss him.

VI.

She'd helped him get the fake skin glove off, and he'd looked at the thing with even more disgust than he had in the morning. He flexed and turned the arm, and she heard the soft slithering of the titanium plates adjusting.

"It bothered you today?"

"Not as much as all of Comrade Fedkin's constant attention, cheap vodka, and poor jokes, but it was certainly an added irritant. I survived."

They ate, and they talked over what they'd learned. Both of them had accomplished first contact with their targets, had begun the social rituals that would hopefully yield productive encounters leading to more intelligence. It was late when they were done, and he helped her clean up the few dishes and pans they'd dirtied. There was a domesticity to the moment that was oddly comfortable as strange as it was for her to look over and see his titanium hand handling a drying towel instead of a gun barrel.

They made plans for the following day as they worked. When they were finished, she reached out, took the towel from him, hung it up to dry, and took his left hand. He looked down at their hands, back up at her face, just the hint of a smile appearing on his lips.

"So did he?"

"Did who what?"

"Did Comrade Fedkin really render you useless for the rest of the night?"

His smile spread. "I don't know. It probably depends on what you have in mind." And he pulled her gently into his arms.

"Yakov, you have things to make up to me for from the morning."

He flinched ever so slightly, but then he laughed and scooped her up, turned toward the darkness of the waiting bedroom.

"Yes, wife."

VII.

She woke up alone again.

 _Well. This is getting to be quite the pattern…._

He wasn't by the window. He wasn't in the bathroom. He wasn't sitting on their small couch or at the table in their kitchen. In fact, as she made an increasingly frantic tour of their small space he wasn't…anywhere. She threw on pants and a top, grabbed her gun and several knives, and she slipped out of the apartment door.

On the landing, she stopped and listened. The building was silent except for those noises all buildings make in the night, heating systems clanking and hissing, the inevitable drip of water down a drain, the lonely sound of a radio softly drifting up from a lower floor despite the lateness of the hour. And then, at the same time an errant cold gust of wind stirred her hair from above, she heard the slight whistling sound of a door that was not closed completely.

She headed up quickly but quietly, around the next landing where their targets presumably slept on unconcerned, around the next which was empty storage, and up one more to the door that led onto the roof. It was propped open with a sliver of wood just large enough to keep the locking mechanism from engaging again.

She drew her gun, caught the sliver of wood with her fingertips, and slowly inched the door open. She saw him almost immediately, crouched in the shadows of some ductwork, eyes searching the stars above them, right hand slowly rubbing up and down his left arm. He was wearing only the loose pajama pants and soft cotton top that he slept in. A robe lay discarded on nearby, and she saw that small mirror next to his foot, facedown.

She stepped through the door, slipped the wood chip back into place, and surveyed the rooftop as a whole for other problems. There were none. They were alone. She holstered her gun.

As she walked toward him, he gave no real sign of noticing her approach.

"Soldat, why are you…" she murmured.

He reacted, suddenly and violently. She found herself pinned against the ductwork, one of his black blades across her neck, something completely furious and totally uncomprehending in his eyes as he stared down at her.

VIII.

"Soldat," she murmured. When she tried to bring her hand up to grab at his own, he took it and pinned it, servos in the metal arm whirring as he slammed her wrist over her head. He did not otherwise move. He seemed locked there, firmly in the grips of whatever past had come to claim him.

"Soldat," she said again, louder. His body shook, but the hand holding the blade at her neck was rock steady.

"Don't call me that. Don't call me that damn name."

 _English._

She licked her lips, hesitated, and replied in the same language. "Right. Okay then. What do you want me to call you?"

He studied her a moment, and something uncertain flickered in his eyes.

"I…I don't know. That's the problem isn't it? I just don't know."

And he let her go, falling back to a crouch as if he were completely exhausted. For a moment, she just leaned against the metal behind her and appreciated not having her throat cut. Then, hesitantly, she reached for him, but he leapt away from her, swinging wildly, backing into a corner formed by a bend of the ductwork until his back hit the wall. The knife he'd used earlier was still in his hand, and he crouched with it in a defensive position in front of him like he was expecting someone to strike at him. She froze. The only sounds were his harsh breathing and the whistling of the wind. She didn't come any closer to him, but she slowly squatted where she was. He watched her, and she saw his hands flex into fists.

"I need you to come back to me."

His eyes darted left and right as though an attack was coming at any moment from every angle.

"You are safe. There is nobody here who will hurt you…"

He laughed, a short bitter bark. "You think I haven't heard that lie before? Stay back. Leave me the fuck alone. Why can't you people _just leave me the fuck alone_?"

"Look at me and try to remember. It's Natasha. I'm not trying to harm you…. You can trust me. Remember?"

He blinked, and she saw the confusion on his face.

"Natasha?" he whispered.

She nodded, waited. He closed his eyes, and the tension seemed to evaporate from his body leaving him limp. He slid the rest of the way down to the rooftop, dropped the blade he held, and buried his face in his hands. Hesitantly, she inched across to him, stopped just at arm's length away, balanced herself to spring away from him if needed. Carefully, carefully, she reached out and touched just his bare foot, just his toe with her fingertips. He jumped as if she'd stabbed him, eyes snapping to hers, and just as she was about to throw herself into an escape maneuver from whatever violence he felt necessary for his own protection, his expression changed.

"Natasha," his voice cracked across her name, lost, broken.

"Right here." She reached out her hand for him again, but he pulled away from it, and she withdrew it slowly. He drew his knees up, crossed his arms over them, put his head down.

IX.

For long moments, they sat like that, him huddled in that dark corner, her sitting a small distance away. She wanted to pull him into her arms, ground him somehow, offer him some kind of comfort, but she knew better than to try before he was ready. She could see the tremors running through him in waves. His body shook so hard that she could hear his teeth chattering, and then he would be still. Then he began to speak.

"I don't remember anything of my life before 1945. Except for the dream I told you, there's just nothin'. There must have been a before. I didn't spring forward from the head of a god fully formed and armored or any such shit as that. But it's all gone. Whatever was there, they scooped it away, neat and clean. My first clear memory is waking up with my body on fire from the inside, some scientist in a white coat and little round glasses smirking down into my face, telling me I was going to be a perfect weapon now…."

His right hand found and clenched the knife, not the handle but the razor sharp blade. She saw blood well up from the wound. She wanted to go to him, tear it from his hands, tend the wound, but instinct and training kept her still.

"Three days I burned. Three damned days. Screamed and burned, and the little bastards in the white coats came and stared down at me and nodded yes, yes, yes... I know it was the serum, now. You've been through some version of it, so you know it feels like you're gonna die, that you wanna die just so the pain will stop, but of course, we weren't that lucky, were we? Nah. We were both too fuckin' strong and stubborn to let it take us, and so we were left…like this…." He looked at the hand that had been bleeding, held it up. The wound was completely gone.

She murmured something, slid her hand to just his foot again, and this time, he allowed the touch.

"I don't know what led to this," he continued, lifting the titanium arm. "Maybe there was an injury. Maybe once the serum was done, they just wanted to see if they could." He shuddered. "I remember the feeling of it happening, though. I remember the exact sound the saw made going through my bones. They couldn't find anything strong enough to keep me under after my metabolism changed. So they just secured me to the goddamn steel table so I couldn't even move and went right on. I remember them talking about what they were doing when they cut me open to reinforce my bones with the metal, to add the necessary electronics so everything worked properly. It didn't go well the first two times they tried to attach it…."

He looked at his arm, flexed it hard, and it hummed as it responded to his demand for power. Then he lowered it, stared back into the sky.

"They made sure they didn't leave me any past, no idea of who I was. But, oh, they left me with _somethin'_ , made sure to leave in everything that was gonna be useful for what they were making me _into_. There has never been a time when I didn't know how to hit a target, even a complicated one, calculate for movement, distance, and wind. There has never been a time when killing didn't feel familiar. Then they added their own stuff. I remember every session, every technique, every opponent, every captive they used for advanced training, every victim they sent me after when the training was done…."

He brought his hands up to cover his face.

"That shit they pumped us full of, it never lets me forget the victims," he whispered. "I can remember every single one, every single expression on every single face, every single last word, the feeling of life leaving every single body…. They trained me that part specifically, added to what the serum already did to make sure I can give complete mission reports when required. I'm a living history book of horrors…."

He uncovered his face, looked down dully and seemed to notice for the first time her hand near his foot. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he shifted and reached down so his hand was near hers, fingers just touching hers, as if that was all the contact he could tolerate.

"And the names. I have had so many damn names. The first handlers all gave me names like I was…like I was some kind of pet they adopted."

She felt a sharp pain in her heart when she thought back to the names she'd given when they first began working together. _Had he felt that way about what I called him? Did he think I was like them?_

He continued with his story, unaware of the change in her expression or the paths her thoughts walked, "Gradually, that stopped. They last time they bothered to issue me ID tags was twenty-five years ago, probably not all that long after you were born. They…they…adjust me to suit each mission, scoop out the old, load in the new, and it just probably got to be a bother to keep coming up with new ones, I guess. They only call me "Soldier" or "Asset." If I'm just another rifle or blade, I don't need a name, right? A tool, you use it, maintain it properly, and put it in storage until you need it again. You don't name it because you don't wanna get attached to anything you may use up, throw away, or destroy…."

He moved his hand away from hers again, was silent for long moments.

"But… but when I first woke up after the surgery and the serum, they called me Yakov. The men in the white coats. Those first handlers. Always Yakov."

 _So that's the trigger this time. The name. I saw it this morning, and I dismissed it. I should have…_

"It…that had been buried, somehow, was locked inside with all the other fragments of things they take away from me. All day long, though, people have been calling me that, saying it over and over, and when I finally got to sleep earlier, all those first days just came rushing back…."

He was calmer now, his color almost restored. He looked down again at her hand and deliberately moved his hand to lie over hers. Encouraged by the gesture, she turned her hand over under his, felt him weave their fingers together.

"If I caused you pain," she started softly.

He shook his head, squeezed her hand gently. "No. It wasn't you. And it wasn't pain, exactly. When the memories came, it was…overwhelming. And then… _Yakov_. Of all the names they could have put on that paperwork, that one. It always felt right, somehow, like it _connected_. Not like any other name they ever bothered to give me. It felt like it fit, you know? Maybe that's why they never used it again, why they…hid it…"

"Can you stand being called this each day of this mission? Tell me the truth," Natasha said.

He thought about it for a moment. "Now that first rush of memory is past… I think...yeah. I think it's good. It feels…comfortable."

"Because I'll have to call you that in front of others; your contacts will use it. If you think it will trigger another episode like this one here tonight, then everything will fall apart…"

"I am quite sure, little widow." He switched back into Russian, and he sounded like himself, like the Soldier she'd known for so long again. "It will be better than some of the other things you've called me over the years. I will be your Yakov if you can stand to be my Anna."

She studied him for a moment, slid over to lean against him, fit herself into the familiar contours of his body.

"Yasha," she said softly. "I'm going to call you Yasha."

* * *

 **I tore this one apart again and again. I hope I managed to hide most of the seams.**

 **Also, you cannot believe my Google searches lately. It's totally throwing off the autocomplete function. At the same time, I'm learning some fairly interesting things about life in the former Soviet Union.**

 **More name fun, too. Morozov apparently means something to do with cold winter, hence Nat's comment earlier.**

 **If the spirit moves you, review, folks.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** So we finally got to the promised Yasha. And it only took me 9 chapters. O_o Yeah…

* * *

 _I am thinking it's a sign  
That the freckles in our eyes  
Are mirror images and when  
We kiss they're perfectly aligned_

 _And I have to speculate  
That God himself did make  
Us into corresponding shapes  
Like puzzle pieces from the clay_

 _~ from "Such Great Heights" by The Postal Service_

* * *

I.

Natasha and the Soldier spent the next two weeks settling deeper into their covers. Natasha threw herself into the work of the volunteer committee with such fervor and efficiency that she was soon Irina's _de facto_ second-in-command. Committee work led to teas and lunches. Teas and lunches led to long conversations about a hundred subjects. Natasha commiserated with Irina over the stresses of the department their spouses worked in, carefully filing away every detail that the woman provided.

The Soldier continued to leave early, stay late, and come home fake stumbling and smelling of vodka on a regular basis. Fedkin was growing to trust him more and more, as well. The Soldier had caught two major errors (and only had to fabricate one of them himself) that would have caused problems for the department, and Fedkin had begun calling him their good luck charm.

They'd been invited to the regular gatherings the Fedkins held at their upstairs apartment, and increasingly, they were the last guests to leave. Everything appeared to be going to plan, and when Fedkin told the Soldier that he and Irina wanted Anna and Yakov to go with them on one of their regular trips down to inspect the department's production facility near the Black Sea, both Natasha and the Soldier began preparations for what might possibly be the lead needed to finish the mission up.

The two couples took the train to the city where the facility was located. Fedkin picked up a waiting government car at the station, and they all piled in. He also had access to a small government apartment and offered to share the tiny space politely. Natasha and the Soldier had refused with equal politeness and would be staying in one of the small, clean hotels. Natasha had leaned against the Soldier and murmured something about a "second honeymoon." He'd looked down as though embarrassed and grinned. Fedkin had laughed and slapped him on the back. Irina had merely smiled blandly and changed the subject.

The Soldier checked them into their room, and all of them went to dinner in the hotel's restaurant. As always with anything concerning Fedkin, too much alcohol was present and consumed. They'd been done with their meal quite some time when their waiter appeared at Fedkin's shoulder and told him he was wanted on the phone. Apologizing, he stood and made a slightly crooked path toward the front desk of the hotel where the phone was located. Natasha watched surreptitiously as he took the receiver in the other room, spoke into it, and his body language became increasingly agitated.

Natasha excused herself to the restroom, leaving Irina listening to a story of the Soldier's that had her laughing, something he was telling about his time in the army and a group of what she assumed were imaginary foolhardy soldiers he had supposedly served with. Natasha had no doubts that the Soldier could keep Irina's attention completely occupied.

The woman had been staring at him with increasingly inappropriate levels of interest practically since the first party they'd attended together. She hadn't missed the fact that Irina took any opportunity to touch the Soldier. She patted his hand lingeringly. She gently squeezed his arm to make a point. She stood far too close far too often. On the train, when she'd thought Natasha was asleep, Irina had slipped off her shoe and gently rubbed her toes against the Soldier's ankle unnoticed by Fedkin who had talked right on. As Nat watched from her fake slumber, the Soldier had blushed and shifted away, reached down to take Nat's hand and pull it into his lap like a man might hold up a shield against an attack. She'd pretended to wake up at that and curled into his side, smiling up at him with apparent adoration. Fedkin noticed none of this, and Irina had only scowled.

Now the Soldier was continuing to play her exactly right, exuding a sort of sweet, gallant, naïve charm that practically had the older woman drooling. Even though she was sitting on the opposite side of the booth from the Soldier, she was leaning forward provocatively, stroking the back of his hand gently as he reached for his drink.

 _And if he really were my new husband and I his little wife, it would have me ready to claw her eyes right out of her head. As it stands, though, I happen to know she's trying to bite off much, much more than she could ever actually chew. Besides, where did he pull that act from? He's like some kind of blushing farm boy, all wide eyes and shy smiles…._

The bathrooms were in a small hall off the main hotel lobby, and when she passed through the doors, Fedkin turned and glared at her. She gave him a small shrug and a tipsy wave as though she'd noticed nothing before turning down the short narrow hall that led to the restrooms and stopped. From here, the clatter and noise of the busy dining room was muted, and she was able to hear Fedkin's side of the conversation.

"No. NO," he said, quietly but forcefully. From her position, she couldn't see him, but the agitation in his voice was clear. "I told you that I found a replacement. Yes. Yes, well-qualified. He's already shown loyalty to the department. He's with me now….. No, not yet. I wanted you to meet him first before I…. Yes. Yes. I understand. No. It won't be a problem. I will be there in about half an hour….. Okay. Yes. Goodbye."

Natasha stepped quietly into the restroom and eased the door closed. She waited for two minutes, flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and headed back to the dining room. Fedkin was already making his excuses and had called for the bill. Irina looked as though she'd just bitten into a lemon.

 _Or been denied a sweet for dessert…._

"I'm so sorry to break up the evening this way. There's a small problem at the facility, and they need me to come do a quick inspection and take care of the paperwork so the repair can be done right away."

Natasha curled herself into the Soldier's side when she sat back down on their side of the booth. "It's okay, comrade. We understand. Duty calls." With that obvious non-stealth of the intoxicated, she dropped her hand to the Soldier's knee, gently rubbed just a little up the hard thigh. He shifted at the touch, looked down at her with eyes that were both amused and just a little hungry. "I'm sure Yasha and I can keep ourselves entertained for the rest of the evening." She smiled up at him coyly, let her hand move further up his thigh, and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Pretend I'm telling you that whatever your wildest fantasy is, you're getting it tonight," she murmured.

He played his part to perfection, a slight sweet blush creeping across his cheekbones as he grabbed her hand in his and brought it up to his lips, kissed it gently, lingeringly. They stared into each other's eyes as if the rest of the room had dropped away. Natasha was pretty sure she heard the sound of Irina's teeth grinding together even from across the table.

The Fedkins parted with them at the stairs since the parking garage for the hotel was beneath it. As soon as they'd officially said good night and Fedkin and Irina had started down the stairs, the Soldier pulled her against his side, leaning heavily against the cane he carried as Sokolov.

He stage whispered, "Anything I want, hmm?"

She giggled, wound her arms around him, "'S what I promised, Yasha…."

He laughed softly, arched an eyebrow at her acting, and kissed her hungrily but gently. Natasha smiled against his mouth, gave herself to the kiss with a happy little noise. They heard Fedkin laughing and making some comment to Irina about "young people in love." She fleetingly wondered what Irina was really thinking as she and the Soldier slowly drifted up the stairs toward the first landing, pressing little tasting kisses against each other's mouths.

They were almost down the hallway to their room when she heard footsteps following them. The heavy tread told her it was Fedkin.

 _I've heard those stumbling steps many an evening going past our little apartment. Time to really sell the idea that we'll be busy all evening…._

She caught the Soldier's eye momentarily, saw agreement in his expression, and then she melted against him, reaching up and undoing his tie with a nimble twist of her fingers, the jacket he had worn to dinner, the first buttons on his shirt. She slipped her hand in against his smooth warm skin, and he made that soft little growl she loved. He backed her against the door to their room, slipped his fingers into her hair, kissed her harder, deeper until she almost forgot they had an audience.

Fedkin cleared his throat behind them. They parted a little guiltily, and she buried her face in the Soldier's shoulder a moment and allowed a blush to rise to her cheeks before turning to face Fedkin. He was grinning widely.

"Sorry, old man. Wouldn't interrupt _that_ for all the money in the world, but…"

 _Sure you wouldn't. Not when you were getting a free show._ Natasha turned away again as if embarrassed.

"…but I forgot to give you our phone number here. Give me a call tomorrow when you two are…up and around…." He handed a small slip of paper to the Soldier, leered at them again, and turned to go, laughing softly and starting to sing something that she recognized as a drinking song with rather dirty lyrics. She glanced down at the phone number in the Soldier's hand, and they were about to talk to one another when it struck them that weren't hearing Fedkin's steps anymore. He'd stopped just out of sight and was peering back around the corner at them. She and the Soldier shared a look. His lips quirked slightly.

 _On with the show…_

The Soldier smiled and lowered his mouth to hers again. "Where were we, little wife?" he murmured, tracing the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue.

She smiled, sighed. "Mmmm. About right here, I think," and opened, sucking his tongue as he slanted his mouth across hers. Once again, the sensation of him, his kiss, the hot touch of his hand sliding up her back under the sweater and blouse she wore muted her irritation at Fedkin's peeping Tom tendencies until he was nearly gone from her thoughts altogether.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck as he fumbled for the door key in his pocket. "Anything, hmm? You should be careful what you offer," he murmured hotly against her ear, nibbling at the lobe, as he opened the door.

"Or what?" she teased, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him into the darkened room.

He shoved the door closed behind him, dropped the cane, slid his hands down to cup her and lift her up as if she weighed nothing, turned her and pressed her back against the door hard.

"Or I'll _take it_ , doll," he growled, shifting from Russian to English.

And then he was devouring her.

II.

She groaned against his mouth, sliding her tongue over his, against it, making a helpless little noise when he returned her gesture from outside the door and sucked it deep into the heat of his own mouth. She wrapped herself around him, legs around his waist, hands slipping up to grip and tug at his short hair. He rocked his hips against hers, and she ground down on the hard ridge of his erection. His left hand clenched where it supported her as a sound of need rumbled in his chest, and he shifted her, deepened the kiss.

Then he stopped, pulled back a little. She dropped her head back to the door, panting, trying to pull herself together. Neither could speak for long moments. She became acutely aware that his hands were still cupping her ass and that she was still wrapped around him. He was still most definitely ready for whatever was next, and at the thought, she shifted against him. He cursed softly, leaned down, put his head against her shoulder.

"Bad timing," she managed.

"Mmm…yeah." The Russian was back.

"Do you.." she took a breath. "Do you think he bought it?"

"If that didn't convince him, nothing ever will…."

"I sort of hate the Fedkins," she murmured.

She felt him grin against her neck. "Right now, I sort of do, too."

He lowered her back to her own unsteady legs, and they leaned against each other for another moment. He studied her, ran a fingertip across her forehead, tucking loose strands of her hair behind her ear. His eyes were still stormy, hungry, and she had to fight the urge to lean back in.

"Want to go shoot them and come back? Wouldn't take ten minutes," she said.

He snorted. "Ten? Could do it in five." Then he kissed her just once more, and it was soft, filled with yearning. "Don't tempt me, little spider," he said, stepping away from her and pulling the jacket off his broad shoulders, finishing opening the buttons on his shirt with careless speed, stripping off the synthetic skin glove that shrouded the gleaming silver arm, and reaching for the suitcase which held his tactical gear. "To the job."

She made a face as she crossed the room to her own gear, pulled off the blouse she had worn to dinner, unfastened the skirt and let it fall.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah… All work and no play…"

Wearing just her undergarments now, she bent over and grabbed her combat suit from her own case and lifted it to check a seam before starting to put it on. She heard his little intake of breath when she bent, and she smirked internally.

 _Bet that ten-minute hit job is sounding better and better, huh, Yasha?_

His arms circled her waist and pulled her against him. His left hand cupped her breast over her bra, and her nipple contracted at the sensation of the cool metal through the fabric. She felt the hot bare skin of his chest against her back, a wash of breath in her ear as he bent and purred, "Just think of it this way. The faster we're done…." His other hand slid down her belly, one strong finger stroking over the material of her underwear, slipping under and circling against her once….twice…three times….

She shuddered, felt her knees start to give way, clutched at his forearm. "Now _you're_ the one making the dangerous offers."

He let her pull away, and she watched as he brought his finger to his lips and sucked it clean, a wicked grin appearing on his beautiful mouth as he did so.

"Consider it a promise, Natasha."

III.

The facility was on the edge of the water to allow for easy delivery of materials and easy shipping of the finished product. That meant the entire facility was subject to whatever weather blew in from the water beyond. Natasha eyed the clouds above them with distrust. Winters around the Black Sea were cold, although not as cold as either of them had suffered through at various times in their past. The season also had a tendency to be filled with precipitation.

 _And it looks like tonight will be one of those nights. Lovely._

The two of them were in their combat gear stretched out side-by-side on the roof of a garage watching Fedkin pacing inside the lighted office building of the production facility, obviously waiting on someone who had not yet appeared. The low building was separate from the main building, keeping the officials in charge away from the dangerous materials being handled within.

Natasha scowled when she felt the first drops of cold rain spatter against her hand and cheek, looking up at the sky and away from the image magnified through the zoom lens of the camera she held.

"Yeah. Hate them."

"Grown to be such a fluffy, cossetted housewife that a slight drizzle is too much for you to bear, little widow?"

"Fuck you, Yasha."

His eyes darted away from the binoculars he was using to meet hers ever so briefly, and she saw a slow, provocative grin slide across his lips. "Not right this moment, but soon, sweetheart…."

She contemplated punching him, but settled for sighing and rolling her eyes. She felt his body shake very briefly with silent laughter. The rain began to pick up a little, and she saw lightning shimmer through the clouds farther out across the water. The temperature had begun to drop rather sharply, evidenced by the suddenly visible mist of their exhalations. A very serious storm was coming in.

A light on the water appeared. They watched it get closer and closer to the facility. A small speedboat finally came into the lights of the facility pier. It stopped, and two people got off, crossed the gravel lot to the metal door of the office building. Fedkin was already opening it to greet them. Light from inside illuminated a man and a woman. Natasha captured shot after shot in the brief moment before the door closed shutting off the indistinct sound of their voices.

Natasha and the Soldier continued their vigil. The two people sat in the chairs facing the big desk Fedkin was sitting at. They could only see Fedkin's face; the others were facing the wrong direction. They were having an animated conversation. The woman seemed to be angry, leaning forward in her chair, pushing her short wavy brown hair back behind her ear as she spoke. Fedkin was holding his hands up in a placating manner. The man rose and went to look at a diagram of something pinned to wall. He ran his finger over the plans, seemingly uninterested in whatever else was going on. His profile revealed short hair that looked as though he'd run his fingers through it quite a lot and a mustache. His clothing, although dark in color, had the lines and material of something that had cost a lot of money. Each time they shifted, Natasha captured it with the camera.

"We're never going to get a good angle if they stay like that," she murmured.

The Soldier grunted his agreement, rose silently, and pulled the backup camera from his bag. Without another word, he moved to the edge of the one-story building away from the office and stepped very casually off. She heard a soft crunch of gravel from his landing, but there was no other noise.

The edges of the storm that had been creeping toward them finally arrived, and as the silver sheet of rain rippled across the parking lot, Natasha braced for its cold impact. It soaked her to the skin in seconds, and she silently cursed it even as she twisted the dripping strands of her hair out of her face and secured it with a hair tie to keep it out of her way. The cameras were waterproof, and there was still a chance she might get something useful, so she gritted her teeth and kept her vigil.

 _I swear, though, if he comes back dry somehow, I really will punch him._

The meeting lasted about thirty more minutes. The rain grew so heavy at times that she could barely make out the figures inside the office through the haze of the water between them. Then, suddenly it let up just a little and the door opened for two figures who dashed out under an umbrella. The woman stopped just inside the doorway while her partner was opening the umbrella and looked up reflexively at the falling rain, and Natasha held her finger on the camera's shutter release, taking image after image in those few seconds. The two raced for the waiting boat, and not long after, the engine started and the small craft was bouncing away over the water. Fedkin, meanwhile, was turning things off, shutting things down, and getting ready to leave. The lights in the office switched off, and another umbrella emerged as he turned to lock the door. Then he was making his way to his waiting car.

 _And we're done for tonight, I suppose…._

She packed away the camera, slung her bag over her shoulder, and crept toward the same edge of the garage roof the Soldier had left from. She looked at the distance and shook her head. She grabbed onto the drain pipe and crawled nimbly down it. The Soldier had appeared sometime during her brief descent and was leaning against a stack of boxes when she reached the bottom, watching her.

He looked at the top of the building, at the drainpipe, and then at her, brow arched.

"Not every occasion calls for leaping off rooftops, Yasha. There generally is some other way."

"I prefer the direct route."

The frigid air bit into them as the rain continued to fall. They turned toward the place they'd hidden the motorcycle they'd used to come to the facility undetected. As they strapped their gear to it, she asked, "Did you manage to get any decent shots? I am not sure how mine will turn out."

"I think so. With this rain, there may be distortion, but I think I got both of their faces."

He straddled the bike, and she slid on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Even soaked to the bone as they both were, he was still warmer than she, and she shamelessly took advantage of it. He cranked the engine, and they sped off into the night.

IV.

As they rode, the wind and water against the cold wet fabric of her combat uniform made her shiver despite the Soldier's warmth. Fingers of cold combed through her wet hair, loosening strands and ripping away more of her body heat. She buried her face against his back and held him tighter. Even though she knew the trip was not a long one and that they were moving extremely fast, she couldn't help but wish it over.

The Soldier's body flexed and moved as he steered, swaying with natural ease in response to the bike, and she clung to him and allowed herself to follow his lead. Her fingertips found the bottom edge of his jacket, and she burrowed them under, pulling at the tail of his shirt until she could get her cold hands against the heat of his abdomen. She felt his muscles flex sharply in response to her cold touch, but she sighed in bliss at the heat against her stiff fingertips. She heard the motorcycle's big engine surge, and he sped up.

One of Ivanov's minions had provided the bike, leaving it in an alley behind the hotel for them, but they needed to hide it somewhere for continued use. Two streets over from the hotel were rows of warehouses. The Soldier was flew along the darkened street, slowed slightly to turn down an alley between two of the more disreputable looking ones, and rolled up a broken concrete loading ramp and through a small open door into one. He pulled around toward the little concrete-block structure that had once served as an interior office for the warehouse. Then he cut the engine, and the only sound was the rain on the metal roof above.

She remained wrapped around him, unwilling to give up even that small portion of warmth. She felt his hands slide down to her arms and gently untangle her. She made a noise of disapproval and frustration as he got off the bike, but then he was scooping her up as though she weighed nothing and heading toward the office door.

Inside, he put her down on her feet gently. The room was warmer, no draft from the outside invading. He cut on a lamp on a small table, and she looked around. What had once served as the administrative quarters for the building was now quite clearly something else altogether. Weapons were racked on the walls, and ammunition was sorted and boxed below. A two-way radio sat on a low shelf near the door. There were two large trunks in the corner, and the wooden shelves that had once probably been filled with the records of the warehouse held rations, water, and medical supplies instead. Nearby, a short countertop had a sink in it. A small cot was pushed up into a corner, heavy blankets in faded reds and greens lying folded on top.

Seeing some means of relief from the creeping cold and wet, she headed for them. The Soldier grabbed her hand before she could take one.

"Get out of the uniform first, little widow. Remember your training."

She scowled up at him, and he let her go and stepped out of the office. She heard the slight metal squeak of the outer door they'd ridden in through being closed, the snick of a lock being turned, and then he was back carrying their bags from the bike. He dropped them in the corner where water instantly began to make a small, messy puddle as it ran off the repellent surface. Then he was removing his own tactical gear with brisk, efficient motions. He hung the jacket on the back of a chair, pulled off the shirt beneath, dropped into the seat of the chair, and began working the laces of his boots.

She managed to pull the zipper of her suit and peel the wet fabric off her body, both relieved by getting its cold, clammy touch off her and dismayed that whatever warmth it might have been giving her was disappearing. She sat on the edge of the desk to fight her own wet boot laces, shivering. The last knot finally gave way, and she pulled off the shoe, pushed the rest of the wet combat suit into a pile at her feet, and stepped out of it.

A heavenly warmth draped around her the second she stood up. He'd taken one of the red blankets from the bed and wrapped her with it. He already had a green one around himself, and he gently pulled her against him, rubbed her back briskly. She wrapped her arms around him, and for long moments, she warmed herself against his strong body while he held her.

After a time, the biting cold softened into something more bearable, and she squeezed him softly and let him go. She felt him press a kiss against her wet hair as he did the same. Wrapping the blankets around them more firmly, they turned to the gear. The Soldier began to unpack his bag onto the desktop. She brought hers over as well, and for a few minutes, the maintenance and care of their mission gear was paramount. They both checked their cameras, rewound the film, removed the cartridges, and placed them into the small metal canisters for protection until they could be developed.

 _See how well they've trained us? Perfect little assembly line workers. Perfect little robots._

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, studied the stubble along his jaw, the drops of rain still clinging to his skin as he worked. She wondered suddenly what they would taste like if she licked them off, what his rough cheek might feel like against her tongue.

 _Except robots don't want, do they? Don't feel. Don't know how to wonder…._

She wanted. She felt.

 _He makes me do both, keeps me from being their empty machine._

Camera still in hand in preparation for putting it into its case, she turned to look at him. The thought of how he'd made her feel before they left to follow Fedkin, the taste of his mouth, the sensation of his body against hers, touching hers, shoved its way out of the mental box she'd locked it in when they'd gone out on mission and clamored for her to _do something about it._

He hadn't stopped working, strong capable hands now breaking down one of the smaller guns he'd carried tonight, checking the mechanism for water damage.

"Be careful. You're making me promises again, little spider…"

The sound of his voice brought her out of her reverie.

"Am I? How?"

His movements were sure, deft, practiced as he reassembled the weapon.

"With those hot green eyes you're watching me with. With those fingertips you've been running across that zoom lens while you're doing it. With that little pink tongue that just flickered out to touch your top lip. All promises."

He inserted the clip, chambered a round, put the gun down, and looked at her. She felt it like a physical touch.

"You know," she said as she put the camera away and turned to pace slowly around the small room, "you've been talking a pretty big game all evening with all this 'don't make promises you don't want to keep' and 'watch out or I'll take you up on them' business."

"Have I?" He sat on the corner of the desk and was still, eyes tracking her as she moved.

She paused and adjusted his jacket where it hung dripping on the floor. "Mmm…. And I'm not saying you _can't_ live up to it…"

She heard his soft laughter and continued her slow tour, trailing her fingertips across the stocks of the racked rifles. "I'm just saying that I haven't seen you even come close to trying…." She let the blanket slide down to uncover her pale shoulders as she stopped in front of the cot.

He left the desk and stalked slowly across the small room to stand behind her. "So what you're saying is that you're finding it hard to take me seriously."

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "I get it. You've talked a bigger game than you were capable of actually bringing. It happens…. It's not like you're some fairy tale monster. You're not the Big Bad Wolf come to eat me up."

His hands slid around her waist, and the shiver that went through her this time had nothing to do with being cold and everything to do with the hard body that pressed against her. His voice was dark, hot in her ear as he whispered, "You sure?" He nuzzled her just behind the ear, and she felt his teeth lightly graze the tendons of her neck as he kissed his way down to her shoulder. "Because, doll, here you are wrapped in red, and you do taste… _delicious_ …."

She sighed as his hands found the edges of the blanket, pulled them back, caressed up her sides to rest just below her breasts, thumbs gently circling but not touching where she wanted them, needed them to be.

"What I'm _saying_ ," she murmured as she turned to face him, the blanket falling away entirely as she shifted and sat back on the cot, legs slightly parted, hands braced behind her in a way that she knew made her back arch slightly, "is that it's time to…how do the Americans say it? Put up or shut up, Yasha."

His eyes were storm silver as he ran them over her naked body, and the slow, wicked smile that spread over his lips made her tremble again, sent a bolt of liquid heat right through her.

"Yes, ma'am. Putting up commencing right the hell now."

* * *

 **Don't throw things. Remember what Dr. Frankenfurter said about "Antici…pation."**

 **Obviously, the next chapter will be one those of you who prefer a flapping curtain and fade-to-black will want to avoid.**

 **Review, people. I'm thrilled by how many of you have favorited this little effort of mine and are along for the ride, but I love to hear what you think, too.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** This story is M for a reason, folks. This chapter now stands as one of the chiefest of them. I do not jest. If you're a plot-only person, wait for the next train.

* * *

 _I want a little sugar_

 _In my bowl_

 _I want a little sweetness_

 _Down in my soul_

 _I could stand some lovin'_

 _Oh so bad_

 _I feel so funny and I feel so sad_

 _I want a little steam_

 _On my clothes_

 _Maybe I can fix things up_

 _So they'll go_

 _Whatsa matter Daddy_

 _Come on, save my soul_

 _I need some sugar in my bowl_

 _I ain't foolin'_

 _I want some sugar in my bowl_

 _~ from "I Want Some Sugar in My Bowl" by Nina Simone_

* * *

I.

She reached out a hand, tugged at the green blanket still wrapped around him, and it fell. For the briefest moment, she drank in the sight of his beautiful naked body before he leaned down, crowding into her space, seeking her lips. She backed up as much as was possible in the limited space the cot provided, swiveling so it was possible to lie down. He followed slowly, moving his body over hers until there was nowhere else left for her to go.

"What? Running away? Too late for that now," he mocked slightly, leaning over her on his forearms and shifting until his legs tangled with hers, pressing her down with the weight of his hot body.

She snorted, shoved lightly at his titanium shoulder. "And you're _still_ just talking…."

He grabbed her hand, dropped a kiss against the pulse point in her wrist, again at the bend her elbow, her shoulder, turned and placed another in the curve of her neck, another against the sensitive spot he'd discovered just beneath her ear. "There's something to be said for talking," he whispered hotly into her ear.

"More to be said for _doing_ ," she growled in frustration, reaching up to thread her fingers through his hair and tug as she tried to find his lips for a kiss. With no effort at all, he pinned her hands above her head and she felt the cold titanium encircle her wrists.

"A time and a place for both, little spider," he murmured, tugging lightly at her earlobe. "Do you know that since you put your hand on my thigh in the restaurant tonight and made that pretend promise in my ear, all I've been able to think about is this?" His free hand skimmed down from her shoulder, across the curve of her breast to cup it, thumb circling her nipple gently. She shivered, and she felt his little smile as he kissed her neck again.

"I thought about all the things I wanted to do to you tonight whenever we were finally away from Fedkin and his wife, built up quite a list…."

"Did you?" she managed, shifting in vain against him.

"I did." He kissed the corner of her lips. "Knew in an instant what I'd do if you'd been serious…." He brushed his mouth against hers, once, twice. She sensed he was waiting.

"Wh-what? What do you want, Yasha?" she asked, leaning up slightly to chase the kiss.

His eyes met hers, and brushed his mouth over hers again, so softly, so gently, as his fingers lightly plucked her nipple.

"I want you to wrap your hands around this," he shifted the grip of his titanium hand slightly so she could feel the steel pipe of the army cot's frame, " and hold on while I take you apart, Natasha," he said, voice a seductive whisper. She felt him release her wrists, and he sat back a little, waiting for her response, his stillness belying the bright, hot hunger she saw in his blue-grey eyes. Licking her lips, she reached back above her and wrapped her fingers around the cold steel pipe.

"Mmm, little spider….so many things I am going to do to you," he purred. Then his mouth was back on hers, hot, aggressive, tongue sliding in over hers. She groaned at the kiss, and he responded with his own low rumble. He pulled back to suck gently on her bottom lip, and then he shifted slightly, and she felt his hot breath fanning over her breast. Her eyes met his and held as he pressed a soft kiss to the upper curve, another slightly closer to the aroused peak.

"We're sitting there in the booth, but I'm not really there at all," he continued, "Instead, I thought about this, us here, you beneath me, all mine to devour." He brushed across her with his thumb again, impossibly gentle before nuzzling her pressing kisses as delicate as the brush of a butterfly's wing against her until he finally came to the swollen nipple. She arched in mute demand, but he neither hurried not increased his pressure. "Mmm," he purred against her, and he lapped at her with slow strokes. "So sweet…." His eyes met hers as he shifted to a gentle sucking.

"God, Yasha…"

"Not enough? Ah yes, you like it when I use my teeth a little, don't you? "

She did. She really did. And if he didn't start to use them soon, she was going to kill him…. She rolled her head against the pillow in frustration.

"You make the sweetest sounds when I suck you hard, just here…like this…" And he drew her into the heat of his mouth, his teeth grazing her perfectly. She felt the cool silver metal of his left hand trail down to tease and toy with her other breast, and the contrast between his hot kisses and his cool caresses made her grip the bed frame harder, a sound of desire escaping her. Then he shifted his kiss, ravenously suckling and tugging with his teeth. Unable to resist, she let go of the bed frame and twisted her fingers in his hair, holding him against her. She felt him smile against her, his gaze flashed up to hers through his dark lashes, and he caught her hand by the wrist, pulled it up until she felt the bed frame, and held it there until she reluctantly grasped it again.

He brought his mouth back to hers when she did, kissed her hungry and hard, sucking her tongue when she slipped it up to duel with his. She arched her hips as much as her position allowed, pressing herself against his thigh. He broke the kiss, buried his face in her neck, and she felt his hand sliding down her belly in slow, lazy curves.

He shifted over her, coming to settle between her thighs at last, and she drew her legs up, feet on the cot's thin mattress. Then that voice was back in her ear. "Also been thinking about this pretty little pussy," he breathed as he cupped her. She gasped, pressed herself against his hand.

"When I touched you in the hotel room, you were so wet for me." He sat back and watched his own hand moving on her, slowly traced a single fingertip over the seam of her swollen lips. Then his eyes came back to hers as he slid his finger up and lightly circled her swollen clit. Again, again… her hands were white-knuckled on the bed frame as he teased. He tapped gently against the little bundle of nerves, saying, "I could have made you come with just my finger right here, couldn't I? You wanted me to…" She bit her bottom lip and nodded, eyes sliding shut as pleasure shivered through her, lifted her hips for more.

"How about this?" And he slid his finger over her in firm, quick circles. "Mmmm…open your eyes," he invited, voice dark and compelling. "Watch what I'm going to do to you. Watch me give you pleasure."

She looked down and moaned helplessly as he touched her. She began to pant as he stroked, speeding up and slowing down, and when he shifted to pinch lightly, rolling the sensitive nub, she gasped and came, a sudden, sharp orgasm. Without a pause, he angled his hand and thrust two fingers into her. She cried out, clamping down around him in reaction to the penetration.

"You're so wet for me, so hot and so tight," he groaned, that devil's voice seducing as he leaned down to kiss her knee, her inner thigh, his fingers stroking in and out of her, seeking and finding the sensitive spot deep inside. "Don't think I've forgotten this… Look , Natasha…." She did, unable to look away as his thumb began to grind against her clit again in mind-shattering little circles. It was all too much. The visual of his hand pumping between her legs, fingers shiny and slick with her own wetness, the sound and feel of those expert caresses, that wicked voice winding her up and up and up. She tightened around him as she came hard. He drew it out, continuing to stroke her so the pleasure rolled through her in waves, making her moan and pull against the bed frame before going limp against the mattress.

He withdrew his hand slowly, and he brought his index finger to his mouth, sucking it exactly as he had in the hotel room. "Delicious," he murmured, slipping his hands under her thighs, lifting her legs and settled them over his shoulders, "but not nearly enough…." And he lowered his head.

He was relentless, lapping at her with long wet strokes of his tongue before settling in to tease and suckle her. She bucked against him, all sense of restraint gone as he dipped his tongue suddenly inside her, again, and again. "Come for me again," he murmured against her, delving faster, deeper. He slipped his hand around her hip and down until he could stroke her sensitive clit with his thumb again. Natasha whined and arched helplessly against him as another orgasm rocketed through her.

And he was rising over her, his hands settling next to hers on the top bar of the metal cot frame as he aligned the heat of his cock against her. He kissed her, and she could taste the tang of her own fluids on his lips and tongue. "Perfect," he groaned against her mouth, his hips rocking, sliding over her and making her groan again.

"Yasha," she managed, as she lifted her hips against him, needing, needing…

"Been hard for you all night," he rasped, kissing her ear, rocking over her again, "wanted to pin you against that hotel room door until you screamed so loud they had to call security….wanted to bend you over that bed, take you from behind hard and fast….even in that miserable rain…wanted to roll over right there on that roof, peel away your uniform and fuck you so hard we made enough noise to blow our cover…"

His dark hungry voice made sure she could see it all in her mind, see him stripping her, bending her, taking her, and she cried out softly at the thought of it all. _Want that, too….I want…I want…._ She couldn't get the words out. He kissed her neck, hot, hungry, open-mouthed, and then he was exactly where she needed him, hard and hot and perfect deep inside. For a moment, he paused, looking down into her eyes as her body adjusted to his, contracted greedily around him. Then he was moving hard. The sound of their bodies colliding, the slight squeak of the cot frame, and their harsh breaths filled the small room.

She couldn't get close enough to him. Even with her body arched against his, even with him buried completely inside, he wasn't close enough. She let go of the bed frame and wrapped her arms around him, her short nails digging into his back as she pulled him down trying to get him somehow impossibly closer. He growled and kissed her deep, hard, tongue stroking in time with his thrusts as if he, too, was trying to get them closer. He used his grip on the steel frame for leverage, riding her harder.

Then everything inside her was tightening up again, and she broke the kiss, head falling back. "Y-y-yasha!" she cried, and she pulled her nails down his back hard enough to draw blood as her world imploded. His harsh cry sounded seconds later, unable to resist the stimulation of her clawing him and her body milking him. She heard the sound of metal twisting from somewhere. _My mind's finally coming all the way apart from this,_ she mused hazily. The moment seemed to go on and on, his back arched holding him hard against her as he came.

Then he collapsed, panting. For a long moment, he just lay on top of her, kissing her neck and shoulder. "When I get some kind of control over my body again, I'll move," he murmured against her skin.

She squeezed her arms around him slightly. "No worries," she managed. For a time, they lay just like that, intertwined, him subsiding inside her, hands gently smoothing over each other's bodies.

"So…about that talking," she said into his shoulder.

"Mmm-hmm?" he questioned, hand running down her arm to find her fingers, interlacing them.

"Damnation."

She felt his lips turn up in a grin against her neck.

"Won't say I told you so," he teased.

She smiled back, pinched his side slightly. "Good. Won't have to scrape up enough energy to punch you in the face for being a smug bastard, then."

Finally, he found the energy from somewhere to roll to the side. He pulled her against him, nestling her against his flesh shoulder. As he reached down to snag one of the blankets they'd cast aside to pull it over them, she stretched and her hands encountered the top bar of the cot's frame. With a satisfied little smile, she trailed her fingers over it as she thought of all the pleasure he'd given her. Then she realized it wasn't a smooth section of steel pipe anymore. She twisted to look at it, and couldn't stop the little grin that came when she realized why it felt different.

His arms pulled her back down against him, and he buried his face in the nape of her neck. She rolled over, the smile still on her face. He leaned down and kissed her softly.

"What's that look, little widow?"

She gestured with a nod of her head toward the frame. He looked up and saw that the heavy metal was bent, crushed in one section. He looked back at her in consternation, and she could see those storm clouds gathering in his eyes as he studied the damage. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down.

"If I ever doubted that you enjoyed yourself, there's proof," she said, and she couldn't help it. She started laughing.

"Find that funny, do you?" His hands slipped up her sides, and for him, she allowed herself to be ticklish, a vulnerability she'd ruthlessly repressed in early childhood, squirming away from his teasing touches, and laughing, trying to fight back. They tumbled over each other, and the little cot made creaking sounds as they twisted against it.

She found herself flat on her back suddenly, and became aware that he was hard against her thigh again. "If you need proof that I enjoyed that," he hummed against her ear, "I'm happy to provide. So good I had to have more…." Then he was kissing her deeply, slowly, as he slid back into her.

All her laughter was gone as she wrapped herself around him and he began to move, measured, lazy, as slow and as thorough as the kisses he continued to give her, rocking as endlessly as the tides of the Black Sea nearby. She brought her hand up and caressed his face. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the palm. The pleasure built slowly. If it had been a rocket trip to the moon earlier, it was a slow voyage down a lazy river now. Eventually, she felt the familiar tension start to twist, and she stretched beneath him, tipping over the edge with a caught breath and a sigh. He followed her with his own muffled groan, biting his bottom lip as he lost himself within her again.

* * *

 **This may very well be the most M thing I've ever written, and I'm sort of torn between horror and pride. Geez. If you enjoyed it, leave me a note below, folks.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** And normal plot service resumes. No lyrics this time. I couldn't find a song that fit. Instead, I found this rather nice quote from a journalist who died in 1950, around the same period this story is set in (if that hasn't been clear), and I'm using it instead.

* * *

 _Everybody calls everybody a spy, secretly, in Russia, and everybody is under surveillance. You never feel safe. ~Agnes Smedley_

* * *

I.

In the early hours of the morning, Natasha and the Soldier left the warmth of their hidden nest and slipped through the cold, dark, wet alleys back to the hotel. In the same way Petrov had ensured the presence of the motorcycle, he had also seen to it that the hotel had provided them a room that was conveniently near the rickety fire escape, and they slipped up it soundlessly.

Fedkin picked the Soldier up from the hotel promptly at seven, and the two men headed back to the production facility. Irina called Natasha sometime around nine to ask her if she'd like to go to see a local attraction that day, but Natasha demurred.

"I would love to go, but Yakov completely forgot to pack socks, and I am going to have to go see if I can locate any."

Irina replied, "Ah, yes. The packing skills of men. I am all too familiar with that, dear. You will learn to go back through his luggage when he's not paying attention. Would you like me to go with you?"

"I couldn't do that to you! It will be deadly dull since I'll have to be on such a ridiculous mission. Why don't we say we'll meet for lunch in the restaurant downstairs instead?"

Irina agreed, and they set a time. Then Natasha took the canisters of film she and the Soldier had shot the previous night and tucked them in her purse, adjusted the position of a knife whose sheath was ever-so-slightly visible beneath the soft fabric of her sweater and blouse, grabbed her raincoat and umbrella ( _because this time I'm not getting soaked by a surprise storm, thank you very much_ ), stepped out of her hotel room, and headed out to get some answers.

II.

Natasha did indeed make a stop to get two pairs of socks before continuing to her primary destination. Petrov had moved his part of the operation into the basement of the small three-story government office building near the town's center. It had once been a bank, and though its carvings and appointments were somewhat worn, there was still an air of faded luxury about it. Natasha's heels made a distinct echoing click-clack as she moved across the marble of the entryway. She nodded to the matronly woman at the lobby reception desk and headed for a set of narrow, badly-lit stairs marked "Public Records." Two creaking flights later, she came to a dusty little room containing large filing cabinets and a huge metal desk. Behind it, a young man was peering at a faded page of handwritten material, slowly deciphering the crabbed writing and typing the contents on the heavy machine in front of him as he went. He looked up as she approached.

"Greetings, comrade," he said. "What brings you to my dusty little corner today?"

She smiled. "My mother tells me that my grandmother came from this area, and I was hoping to be able to search the records to see if any information about her is present."

"Ah, yes. Family ties. Your mother sent you on this journey, then?"

"Dutiful daughters do what mother tells us."

"Indeed. As must we all." He stood, the ritual exchange of phrases completed. "If you will follow me? The information you want will probably be found in the old vault." He turned and began moving away through the maze of floor-to-ceiling shelves behind him. "We have so little space here, that we had to convert it long ago for the purpose…."

They stopped before a gigantic metal door. He turned the wheel that functioned as a handle on it, and with only the barest whisper of noise, it glided open to reveal stacks of boxes lit with same dim bulbs that illuminated the rest of the area. Shadows and stillness were pervasive. He gestured her inside. "Feel free to look as long as you like, comrade." And he turned and left her to it.

Natasha stepped in, turned to the third aisle created by the stacked boxes, and headed for the back of the chamber.

III.

Petrov seemed pleased by the fact that they'd gotten photos, and he handed the film canisters off to one of the white-coated techs who hurried off, presumably to develop them. Petrov then had Natasha go over the events of the night in minute detail. A tape recorder hummed softly on the desk as he documented her report, its huge spools turning lazily.

"Good. It seems as if progress is finally being made," he said when she finished recounting the story to his satisfaction. He was making a note on the clipboard he held, and suddenly he looked up at her sharply.

"It seems that neither you nor the Soldier were in your hotel room last night long after you say your surveillance ended, Black Widow. How do you account for the missing time?"

She was completely unsurprised that Petrov had known they had not been in the hotel room. Such was the way of things. For as much of her life as she could remember, someone had been looking over her shoulder. Even when she saw nothing, she always assumed there was _something_ keeping track of her, some pair of eyes somewhere watching.

 _But he doesn't know about the warehouse. Or does he? They always know, don't they?_

She knew her expression betrayed nothing. She'd been trained far too well for that. And yet to deny it if they did know…. She decided to go a middle path that would allow her deniability if this was some kind of test or trap. She raised an eyebrow and looked back at Petrov. "After the mission, the Soldier and I had to find a place to hide the motorcycle since it is likely that we will need it again. It took us quite some time to make sure we had a suitable location. Once we did, we waited for the weather to calm down somewhat and discussed strategy before returning to the hotel."

He tilted his head, and once again, the light from his desk lamp flared across his glasses lenses. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could feel the weight of his regard.

"Hmm," he murmured, finally looking down to make some small notation on his clipboard. "And the Asset? As you know, in the past, he has always required periodic…tuning…to maintain peak efficiency. Without going through reset on a scheduled basis, his files indicate that his effectiveness in the field diminishes. He is susceptible to certain…lapses…that the reset helps him to avoid. Would you say that he continues to function within mission specifications? Have you noticed anything erratic or unusual about his performance?" Those impenetrable glasses were angled at her again.

Something about the way he said it brought back images of the Soldier staring out of their apartment window into his own rain-silvered reflection, the cracked tile of the bathroom counter, the lost huddled figure on the apartment roof, the look of him last night above her, expression filled with pleasure and desire, but she shoved it all away ruthlessly.

 _No. Not lapses. And none of that belongs to Petrov. All of it is Yasha's and my own…._

"No. He is as he has always been. His performance is exemplary. We both remain dedicated to completing the mission."

Petrov watched her for just a moment more. Then he looked down at his notes, scribbled something at the bottom, nodding the whole time.

"Of course you are. Thank you, Agent Romanoff. This briefing has indeed produced valuable information. Expect to find copies of the photographs waiting for you at the hotel desk this evening. The clerk will tell you it is a letter from your sister. Hopefully, the photographs will give us a few clear shots and we will be able to put a name with those faces to find out who it is we're dealing with here."

IV.

Sullen clouds had rolled in by the time Natasha ascended the stairs. With a sigh, she slipped on her raincoat, unfurled the umbrella, and headed back to the hotel through spitting drizzle. She was only half-surprised to find Irina waiting for her in the lobby. The woman gestured to the bag Natasha held.

"So you had success?"

Natasha shook it slightly. "Yes. Yakov owes me for making sure he doesn't have to walk around with wet feet in all this rain."

Irina stood and they walked toward the waiting dining room. Irina looked at her out of the corner of her eye and smiled thinly. "He's so lucky to have a wife as dedicated to his happiness as you."

Natasha shook her head and looked to the side as though embarrassed. "Not so. I am the lucky one." They took their seat at a table near the front windows. Rain had begun to come down in earnest by now.

Irina studied her over the top of her menu.

"You really do love him, don't you?"

Natasha nodded. "I do. He's a good man, kind and smart."

"So he seems. I don't doubt he will go far with you behind him. A good man becomes something much better with his wife helping him along the way, I always say."

Natasha smiled. "Honestly, Irina, I would do whatever I could to help him. It's why I serve on the volunteer committee. It's the only small way I have been able to find to do something for him outside the home." She laughed, nudged the bag with the socks sitting on the floor beside her. "Well, other than ensuring he will have warm, dry feet on vacation, anyway."

Irina laughed, and the conversation turned to other things. Natasha noticed that the woman continued to study her in a thoughtful, measuring way. She sipped her tea and reached for one of the dainties the server had placed before them.

 _Go on and take the bait, Irina. I've set it out for you, just as pretty as these little sandwiches._

V.

The Soldier called her that afternoon saying that Fedkin wanted them all to go to dinner at a restaurant near the water. They would come by and pick up Irina at the Fedkin's apartment and Natasha from the hotel lobby around 6.

"And how is your day going, husband?" she asked, leaning against the wall by the bedside table holding the phone. In the background, she could hear Fedkin's braying laugh over the whirring sound of heavy machinery.

"Just exactly as one would expect. Did _you_ find something nice to do today?"

She snorted. "A little fishing."

"Hmm. Good for you."

"Maybe good for us both."

He laughed softly. "Really? Some new variation on ten minutes?"

Remembering her comment about simply shooting the Fedkins from the frustrations of the previous evening, she grinned. "Nothing quite that drastic."

Fedkin's voice came closer, and she could make out distinct words as he approached the Soldier. "….now, now. You can whisper sweet nothings in that delectable little ear when you get back to the hotel tonight! Come! I have some people you should meet, and then we need to make a decision concerning that proposed change to the third stage of manufacturing…." Suddenly, there was the sound of the receiver being jostled and then Fedkin's voice was full in her ear. "Farewell, little Anna! I'm stealing your husband! You'll forgive me, no?" The receiver was fumbled again, and Fedkin's laugh grew softer.

"Anya? Are you still there?" the Soldier said quietly. She could almost hear his teeth grinding together. She wondered if Fedkin could any trace of it on the Soldier's face. _Probably not…._

"Still here," said Natasha, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.

"More and more, little wife, I'm thinking your original idea was the best one…."

She laughed outright. "Patience, Yasha. Go play nice with the others."

His grumbled profanity reached her just before the line disconnected.

VI.

As she stepped into the hotel lobby about fifteen minutes before six, the girl behind the front desk flagged her down. "Comrade Sokolov! I have a letter here for you. It came this afternoon."

Natasha came over and signed for the manila envelope, chatting just a little with the girl before going over and sitting on one of the padded benches near the door where she would be able to see Fedkin's car when it arrived. She slit the envelope open with her fingertip and pulled out the contents, a folded letter and several black and white photographs which she glanced at before unfolding the paper. Neat typing read, "When you get this, call me! It's urgent. Mother is ill." A phone number was included. She checked her watch and saw that she still had time.

 _And if I don't, Fedkin can jolly well wait._

She felt a certain sense of… _something…._ that this moment was somehow important as she slid the heavy wood and glass door of the phone booth closed behind her and dropped the coins into the slot.

 _It's just that I'm ready to end this mission, and this is the first real lead we've had so far. Finally, we can get things moving properly and know who we're dealing with._

A woman answered the phone. She sounded like she had been crying. "H-hello?"

"Sister? It's Anna. I got your letter. What's going on with Mother?"

The tone of the voice immediately changed. "Hold one moment, Agent Romanoff. Petrov will explain."

There was silence, and then Petrov was on the line.

"Agent Romanoff? Good." His voice held barely concealed agitation as he launched in without further preamble. "We have identified the two people in the picture, and orders have come down from on high that your mission has changed. Your kill order for the American agents has been rescinded. You are to capture and hold until we can pick them up."

"Understood. Can you give me more information about them? Who are they?"

"The woman is a high-level member of SHIELD, Agent Margaret Carter. The man is Howard Stark. You should treat them as extremely dangerous and unpredictable."

" _The_ Howard Stark? What is he doing _here_? And what is a high-level SHIELD agent doing in this backwater?" She took out the pictures and looked at them, studying the faces of these two new players in the game. _What is Fedkin actually doing at that factory? What have we walked into that one of the most important inventors in the whole world is involved?_ A cold chill slithered down her spine.

"That's what you are to find out. Apparently, Fedkin is involved in something much larger than we knew."

She heard an engine pull up outside the hotel lobby, and a car door opened and closed. She glanced back over her shoulder to see the Soldier step in, look for her, and be directed toward the phone booths by the desk attendant. He nodded and crossed toward the enclosure. His long raincoat was spattered across the shoulders with drops of water from the ever-present rain outside, and his changeable eyes were filled with a pleased light when they met hers. He was so beautiful to her in that moment that she raised her hand and pressed it gently against the pane of glass in the booth's door as if she were reaching out for him.

"I am going to have to go now, Petrov. The Fedkins are here…."

"Understood. Your cover for this will continue to be what was in the letter. Your sister has called you to make you aware of your mother's illness. Make sure the Asset is aware of the changes in mission parameter. And…" he hesitated momentarily before continuing, "I cannot express to you how important it is that you report any irregularities in the Asset now, Agent Romanoff, no matter how minor you think they may be….." It sounded as if he wanted to say more, but he did not continue.

 _What the hell is that about?_ She turned slightly and frowned at the phone, and the Soldier slowed his pace toward her, taking in her changed expression, the small smile he had been wearing fading to something wary and neutral.

"Rest assured, Petrov, that if anything emerges, I will notify you."

"You will need to make daily contact from this point forward. An agent is being placed in your hotel in the kitchens. If you need immediate contact, simply order room service."

"Understood." And now the Soldier was standing right outside the door to the booth. "I must go."

"Go. But remember all I've told you."

"Yes. Goodbye." She hung up the phone as the Soldier pushed the door open. She put her arms around him, and he returned the embrace.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he murmured, stepping in and pulling the door closed behind them as if they needed a moment of privacy.

She laid her head on his shoulder. "The official story from this point forward is that my mother is ill. I just talked to my sister, and while it is not serious enough for us to go to her, I will of course have to spend time dealing with it."

He nodded. "And? The reason for the change?" He rubbed her back gently as if he were comforting her. She saw Fedkin emerge through the doors of the hotel looking for them.

"The kill order on the Fedkins and the two agents we saw last night has been rescinded from the highest level. We are to capture all of them if we possibly can."

Fedkin was headed for them, a puzzled look on his face when he saw them together in the booth, slowing his approach when he saw the tears Natasha had allowed to start falling when the Soldier had embraced her.

"Understood. What else? Why are you worried? It's nothing we haven't done a hundred times before together or separately." The Solider turned and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

"The two Americans are ridiculously highly placed and well-trained to be dealing with Fedkin unless he is involved in something far more serious than we originally thought."

Fedkin had reached the outside of the booth now, and he tapped on the door hesitantly. The Soldier gave her a squeeze and stepped away, cupping her cheek, thumb stroking across to rub away the tears that still fell.

"It will all be okay, little wife," he whispered. "Together, there's nothing we can't handle."

He opened the door and stepped out, pulling Fedkin to the side ostensibly to explain the situation. Fedkin immediately began to offer to go, but Natasha stepped out as if she were forcing herself to put on a smile over sadness.

"No, Fedkin, please. We don't want to disrupt your plans, and besides…it might be nice to have some company and take my mind off of the whole thing…."

He smiled and reached out for her hand, squeezing it with an unexpected gentleness and sincerity.

"Okay, then, Anna. If you're sure…"

She smiled back at him, pulling her hand away and tucking it in the curve of the Soldier's arm. "Oh yes. I've heard so many wonderful things from you and Irina both about this place. I wouldn't miss this for all the world."

* * *

 **PLOT TWIST. (or not if you were paying attention to the description of the two figures in Fedkin's office earlier.) I hope you enjoyed all this plottery. More coming soon. As always, leave a little something in the box below if the spirit so moves you.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** On we go. I hope you're still enjoying it. Since I'm running behind with posting, you get an extra dollop.

* * *

 _Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark-spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who's doing all the moving. I'm not the station, I'm not the stop: I'm the train. I'm the train. ~Martin Amis, Money: A Suicide Note, 1984_

* * *

I.

The Fedkins took Natasha and the Solider to a restaurant that was every bit as nice as they'd claimed, and both Fedkin and Irina seemed to be making a concentrated effort at being jovial. Perhaps it would have worked with anyone other than Natasha. She saw the two of them exchanging worried glances when they thought she and the Soldier were occupied with their own conversations.

And so the evening passed. The Fedkins brought them back to the hotel and walked them in to the lobby. Fedkin and the Solider were some little distance behind, talking in low tones that Natasha could not quite decipher over Irina's solicitous questions about her mother's condition and offers of help if needed.

 _And what would you say if I told you that the thing that would be most helpful to me is for you, your husband, and those two SHIELD agents you're running around with to load up in that car out front and go see a few friends of mine who really, really want to ask you a few questions?_

Natasha continued to make the appropriate social noises in the correct places, but inside, she couldn't help but wish them gone. There was so much to talk over with the Soldier, plans to be made, and contingencies to consider. The conversation finally wound to a halt, but just before Irina turned to rejoin her husband, she laid a hand on Natasha's arm gently.

"I know this is a difficult time for you dear, but I was wondering if you might possibly like to have lunch with me tomorrow. You see, it turns out that quite unexpectedly a very old friend of mine is in town, and I thought it might be nice if all three of us had a little meal together."

Natasha studied Irina carefully. Was this the opening they'd been waiting for?

Irina continued, "I understand if you don't feel up to it. And, of course, if your mother's health should deteriorate and you have to go to her suddenly, you absolutely should. I just thought…all things considered… time away from the hotel with some company might do you good."

Natasha laid her hand over Irina's. "You're so kind. I am sure you're right. Yakov will be busy all day tomorrow at work, and I don't think it would be good for me to sit and worry. Unless something comes up, I would be very happy to meet your friend. Thank you for the invitation."

II.

Finally alone after the Fedkins left, Natasha had brought the Soldier up to speed on the changes to their mission status. She'd handed him the pictures of their two American targets while she'd talked, and he'd stared down at them in brooding silence. He lifted the picture of Stark and perused it, his usual frown deepening as he laid it aside. Then he took up the picture of the woman, Agent Margaret Carter, and his eyes grew distant, sad. Gently, he tapped the image with the fingertip of his metal hand, and Natasha paused.

"Yasha? What is it?"

He glanced up at her for a moment, back down at the picture, and shook his head before laying the black and white image on the table.

"Nothing. She just looks so…." He visibly collected himself from wherever it was the picture had taken him and continued. "…dangerous."

 _That is in no way what you were about to say, Soldat…_

He continued, "And there is no possible way I can be backup for you if something goes wrong, Natasha. I'm damn good, but even I haven't figured out how to be in two separate places across town from one another at the same time."

The Soldier stood and gathered a kit of weapons and tools to maintain them, which he spread across the little table with precise, economical movements. He picked up a whetstone and began stroking it across the long lethal blade of one of his larger knives. There was no piece of his equipment that was ever less than perfectly ready for mayhem, at least not any that she had ever seen near him, but he worked on the task with a focus that made it seem as though it was completely vital and all-consuming.

"You know as well as I do that the chances are good that this isn't just a _ladies' luncheon_ you're attending tomorrow. You cannot go into it without some kind of backup if she is planning to introduce you to a SHIELD agent."

"You have to stay with Fedkin at the factory and dig. We have to know what is going on there, why Stark of all people would be here and interested in someone like Fedkin, and we have to know it as soon as we possibly can. Fedkin likes you. He seems to trust you more and more. Based on what I overheard him saying on the phone, I would have to say that it's likely he plans to bring you into whatever he's got going. Since there's this uncertainty now about how long we might be staying here thanks to dear old sick mother Petrov, I'm willing to bet the two of them have accelerated their timeline for it. "

He held the knife up to the light and inspected the edge for a moment before irritably spinning it through his fingers. It was an absent gesture, something he was doing without any clear concentration as his mind chased all the angles and corners of their situation. The blade flickered in his hand.

 _Not ten men in the world could handle a blade that sharp with that kind of recklessness and come away unscathed. My Yasha…._

She walked over and leaned her hip against the table. "Look. I know you don't like it. I don't particularly like it myself. I think, though, that of the two of us, I have less to worry about here. I hardly think Irina is going to hit me across the back of the head and carry me off. Now if it were _you_ going to lunch with her…"

His lips twisted in a sardonic smirk, and he shook his head slightly. The big blade continued to dance nimbly through his fingers.

"Yasha," she murmured. "You know I can take care of myself…."

He put the knife down and looked up at her fully for the first time since she'd handed him the photos.

"Little spider, I never have any doubts about you. I know exactly what you're capable of." He took her hand gently, kissed the back softly. She squeezed her fingers around his in return.

"Then what is it?"

He sighed, released her hand, stood up, and paced in the space near the windows like a hunting animal trapped.

"I…don't know. There is something here that doesn't quite add up. There _has been_ something this whole time. This entire mission has been…." His voice trailed off as he gestured in frustration. "Natasha, is _anything_ about this mission like others we've been sent on before?"

She blinked, frowned at him a moment as she considered all the elements together.

"It doesn't seem all that different from assignments I've had in the past. Infiltration, information gathering, target elimination…"

He nodded sharply. "Yes. _You_ do these things. But…but…not _me_ , right?"

"What do you…"

"Think carefully about our missions together. You were always the one who dealt with this side of things. You lure them, charm them, seduce them. What was my role every single time, Natasha?"

She was still, thinking of their history together. "The…the finale?"

"Yes. You sow. I reap. Every time we've been paired. I'm the silent blade slid between the ribs, the explosion that brings down the building, the poison in the water mains, the impossible shot from the unreachable angle, the arterial spray glistening on titanium, the phantom who slides into the locked room, death in the dark and of it. I am always the executioner. I complete a mission rotation, I _end a life_ , and they…they…reset me…as needed for the next. This cycle with you is the longest I can remember going without reset, in fact, although that might mean nothing, all things considered. Why have they changed the way they deploy me so radically? And for so long?"

"Well, because Fedkin was obviously going to need someone male to open up to about whatever they've got going and…"

"But why _me_ specifically?" He came to stand in front of her and rested his hands gently on her shoulders. "There have to be at least ten other agents who could have been Fedkin's friend for this mission, ten other more appropriate and plausible husbands for sweet little Anya."

"Because we work well together. It has to be. We've never failed to complete any mission they've put in front of us no matter how complicated or intricate it was. They must have noticed that. _You_ must have noticed it, too, right? That we're good together?"

He looked at her, eyes unreadable for long moments. Then he squeezed her shoulders softly and pulled her against him as he sighed. "Yes. Very good together." He kissed her hair as he murmured so low she almost didn't hear it, "That's what I'm afraid of…."

III.

They changed into their tactical gear and used the fire escape before weaving through the dark alleys to the warehouse where the motorcycle waited, and then they were flying through the cold night toward the factory once again.

When they arrived, the entire location seemed deserted save for the gate guard who dozed in the little lighted guardhouse at the entrance. They cleared the outer fence with ease and moved in the shadows until they could reach the office Fedkin had hosted the visitors in. Tonight, the windows were dark as they crept closer. They had come to the back side of the office instead of going to the exposed and well-lit front door. The Soldier made short work of the locking mechanism on one of the windows, and the two of them quickly slipped through it. Neither needed to use the flashlights they carried on their equipment belts; the enhancement serum meant the illumination coming in from the security lights outside provided more than they really needed as they began to go through the file cabinets and desks steadily and methodically.

Natasha gently pushed the final drawer of a large file cabinet shut with a soft click, and turned in frustration to the next. She's been through almost all of the cabinets on this wall with no useful results.

 _There's nothing here. There are no irregularities in orders, no suspicious substances in order, nothing present that should be or missing that shouldn't. All the numbers in all the ledgers add up to the last coin. I know that they go through a really surprising number of pencils in a month, but I hardly think that is what has brought SHIELD here…._

She glanced over to see the Soldier standing near the window, slowly leafing through the pages of a file he'd taken from Fedkin's locked desk drawer.

"Did you find something?"

He nodded.

She crossed to stand beside him. "What is it?"

The page he'd been looking at was a record of personnel transfers to and from the facility. He drew his fingertip down the column of names, previous facilities the individuals listed had been affiliated with, and dates they'd been at and left Fedkin's domain. "Doesn't this seem like a ridiculously large number of specialized scientists coming to work at a facility of this type? Most of them are not even active in research that seems to connect to what's going on here."

She scanned it, and as he'd indicated, it seemed they'd come and spent time ranging from a few days to several months at the facility before returning to their primary labs elsewhere.

"And look _who_ they are…"

She considered it a little more carefully. He was right. The thing that had been clamoring for attention in the back of her mind ever since she'd first looked at the list finally registered. She knew almost all of them because….

… _sometime after they were here, four of the twelve on this list managed to defect and six of the others had been either terminated or brought to heel by the KGB before they could…._

She caught her breath as she realized that she and the Soldier had put down three of these scientists. The father of the little boy she'd kidnapped for leverage made a fourth. They'd been chasing this far longer than they knew. She flipped the page and looked at the next item in the file. A small handwritten list containing three sets of initials with dates beside them was neatly paperclipped to a set of government forms used by the various ministries to document location transfers for employees. One of the dates was only two days away.

 _Finally,_ she thought, and looked up at the Soldier with a satisfied smile as she slipped a little camera out of her pocket to record the documents in the file. _A.V., whoever you are, this is the end of the line for you._

IV.

The next day, Natasha approached a small, neat restaurant that sat close enough to the shore for diners at its outdoor tables to enjoy the light on the changeable Black Sea as they ate. The head waiter took her toward one of those tables now, and as she approached, she saw Irina sitting with another woman. The two were in animated conversation. Irina did not look happy, but the other woman was completely unruffled as she lifted her tea cup to her lips and sipped. Natasha felt a small spike of anticipation as she approached the table, a certain vindication at having been right at her assessment of today's situation.

 _Hello, Agent Carter…._

Agent Carter saw her first, and her red lips curved up ever so slightly into a polite smile as she nodded in greeting to Natasha as she approached. Irina continued to stare unhappily at the other woman for just another moment, and then her attention, too, shifted to Natasha. Irina painted a smile that was probably intended to be welcoming but managed only to look slightly pained on her face as she rose and embraced Natasha.

"Anna! So glad you were able to make it today. And how is your mother this morning? Has there been news?"

"No change. The doctors are optimistic but cautious just now," she murmured.

"Poor dear. I am sure they are doing all they can."

"Yes." Natasha smiled just a little and turned her eyes to Agent Carter expectantly now that the requisite greeting small talk had been accomplished. _Who will they pretend that she is? What story will they tell me?_

"Anna, this is my dear, dear friend Margaret Rogers. We met when I was in university abroad, but I haven't seen her in person for a great many years. She and her husband were in Istanbul, though, at the same time we were going to be down here, and we managed to work out a visit."

Natasha nodded at the other woman. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rogers."

Agent Carter nodded back, "Irina has told me so much about you that I've been looking forward to actually seeing you in person. " Her Russian was flawless, just the tiniest hint of a British English accent flavoring it.

The waiter appeared to hover near the table just then, and Irina lifted her menu and smiled at them. "Let's deal with the important business first, ladies. What shall we have for lunch?"

V.

They performed the usual social rituals over lunch and tea, small talk about the university days that had produced the supposed friendship between Mrs. Fedkin and Mrs. Rogers, commiseration over the difficulty of keeping in touch, sympathy over the stresses of having family ill and far away, humor over the foibles of the men to whom they were ostensibly married. Natasha kept up with the conversation and banter, but internally, she was cataloguing every aspect of this tool of SHIELD who sat across from her.

 _There is nothing false in her presentation. She wears Margaret Rogers as naturally and as easily as if she were a real person. If I didn't know who she really was, and if I were not who I really am, it would be absolutely possible to believe in this story. It has depth, detail, and not one false note so far._

Which meant that the other agent was good, more than good enough to justify Petrov's frothing frenzy to capture and interrogate her. Some tiny flicker of the same kind of joy Natasha always felt when she sparred with the Soldier sputtered to life. The other woman was not enhanced, but she was obviously highly skilled at her job. Here was a true test of Natasha's skill and her training. Here was an opponent with whom she would not have to pull any punches.

Long after most of the other lunch patrons had wandered back out into their daily routines, the three women continued to sit and talk. Natasha asked gently probing questions, got responses that were either filled with well-thought-out, utterly-believable bullshit, or was expertly deflected. Just as deftly, the agent politely interrogated her, asking questions designed to give insight into where Anna Sokolov's politics and personal feelings might be. With equal skill, Natasha fed Carter her own rich and totally imaginary history with Yakov Sokolov. She reinforced what she'd told Irina about how deeply she loved Yakov and how much she wanted to help him with his career. She also made sure to let drop just one or two tiny snippets of bait that she might not be quite so satisfied with good Soviet life as one might be. Everything was light, casual, just the testing crossing of blades before the fencing match begins in earnest. Irina's gaze flickered back and forth between the other two women as if she were measuring both for something, some moment when the two sides of their conversational scale reached a critical point of balance only she could discern.

Natasha excused herself briefly to the restroom. She went back inside the building and turned the corner to the short hallway where the bathrooms were tucked away, paused a moment, and then peeked around the edge to look at the table. The two women were in deep conversation. She saw Irina reach across the table and grip the other woman's wrist firmly as if she were making some kind of promise or urging her to do something. The agent pulled away slightly, was quiet a moment, and then she nodded. Irina suddenly looked a little less fearful, and the two continued to discuss whatever the topic was, presumably Natasha herself. No new information was possible from observing them this way since she was too far away from the table and there was too much background noise from the open seating and the restaurant around her to allow her to hear. _Wish there was some way to listen in on these little conversations that didn't involve having Petrov in a closet in the back and an army of microphones hidden all around._ She stepped into the restroom and washed her hands. When an appropriate length of time had passed, Natasha rejoined them.

Irina flashed a look at the SHIELD agent and licked her lips nervously before saying, "Fedkin and I are holding a little party at our apartment tomorrow for a few people, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, a new researcher who is being transferred in to the plant, like that. Fedkin was going to talk with Yakov about it, but since we're here together, I just wanted to go ahead and extend the invitation…."

"I'm sure we'd love to come, Irina. That's very thoughtful. Thank you."

Finally, they parted with the expected flurries of compliments and other pleasantries. Natasha walked back toward the hotel as Irina and the ersatz Mrs. Rogers headed toward the bus stop in the opposite direction, heads close together, arms linked as they talked. Natasha wondered what impression she'd made and how long it would be before the seeds she'd sown bore the desired fruit.

VI.

As it turned out, she didn't have long at all to wait.

She hadn't been back to the hotel more than an hour when a call came up from the front desk that she had a visitor. Natasha checked her appearance in the mirror, swept a few errant strands of hair back into place, smoothed her hands over the dark blue skirt she wore, and headed down to the lobby. As she turned the corner on the big landing leading to the main floor, she saw Irina standing at the desk, every aspect of her posture radiating tension. Natasha smiled at Irina when she turned as if she were glad to see a friend, and Irina struggled to bring an answering twist to her lips.

"Irina! What a surprise!" _Not really._ "Is something wrong? We just left the restaurant, and I didn't expect to see you again until tomorrow evening."

"I wanted to talk with you about something, Anna, and after I left Margaret at her hotel, it seemed to me that it would be better to do it now than later."

"Dear me. It sounds so serious…"

Irina smiled and patted her arm, steering her toward the hotel's massive doors. "Nothing to be afraid of, I assure you. Let's just take a little walk and I'll explain it to you."

VII.

They wound up walking to a small beachfront playground not far from the hotel. The place was deserted. It wasn't hard to see why. What had been intended to be cheerful now missed the mark by quite a lot. Rocking animals on springs had originally been painted bright colors, but a combination of salt air and time had caused most of it to flake and peel. The horse nearest them had one patch of brilliant red left around its long-lashed eye. It was blind on its other side. Another creature she supposed was supposed to be a dragon had nothing left but a menacing and toothy grin and shiny metallic claws. A fountain with small dancing figures with pointed ears and long caps trickled rust-colored water sullenly into the leaf-cluttered basin below.

Ignoring the surroundings, Irina led her to a battered metal picnic table hunkering under a round wooden pavilion. They each took a seat, and for a moment, they stared out at the horizon, watching another dark strand of clouds marching toward them from the distance.

They'd made scattered informal conversation on the walk to the playground, but now Irina turned her full attention on Natasha.

"You love your husband, do you not?"

She put on a puzzled expression, "Of course, Irina. What an odd question. Why…"

Irina cut her off. "I know that you do. I can tell that you are like me. You are the type of woman who is willing to do much to help her husband succeed."

Internally, Natasha snorted. She'd seen Irina ogle the Soldier once too often to believe that the woman was overly romantic about her husband. Then she pushed it away. _Because you don't have to be sending each other valentines every day for the type of thing she's about to present to me…._

Natasha bit her bottom lip a little hesitantly, letting the persona of Anna Sokolov flow through her, be her. "I…I…don't know how to answer, Irina. I love Yakov very much, it's true. I would do anything I reasonably could to help him."

Irina sat back and studied her. "It is as I thought. Good. There is a way that you can help your husband…and yourself... if you are willing."

"What…what would I have to do?"

"Almost nothing, really. Fedkin needs a second-in-command to help him with some things. It would not be anything huge, mostly administrative duties, things he doesn't have time to take care of properly now on his own. Nothing about any of it is illegal or wrong, if that's a concern, although I hope you would think better of us than that….. Sometimes he needs things picked up or dropped off. Occasionally, he might need Yakov to meet a train to give a new employee a ride when he's stuck in a meeting and can't do it. It's a sort of a promotion, really, and it could lead to much greater things down the road if Fedkin knew he could trust Yakov in this way. You just need to encourage Yakov to accept the offer. That is all."

"Irina, I am not really sure I'm comfortable with this. If it is a promotion, surely Yakov would jump at the chance without any need for me to…"

Irina snorted. "You know men. They come up with the most ridiculous excuses not to do the most logical thing sometimes. Perhaps he won't want to do it because it will mean extra time away from you, extra hours in the office, extra trips with Fedkin when he comes down here to the factory or what-have-you. He might not think it would be worth it. But you and I know better." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You and I know just how much hard work it takes to make something a success. I could tell it from the first day you walked into my office."

Natasha ducked her head, allowed herself to blush, murmured something indistinct, as though Irina's praise embarrassed her.

"…And perhaps Yakov will need no encouragement at all. He is a very smart young man. I just wanted you to know that it was coming and how important it is for you both that you make sure he says yes. If he accepts this now, if Fedkin should happen to move to other things, your Yakov would be in the perfect place to move into the directorship of this branch of the ministry."

Natasha put on an expression she hoped was suitably awed. "But how could I persuade him if he does not want to do it?"

Irina shook her head. "Dear girl, you cannot be that blind. Any fool can see it. The way that man looks at you, it's what all women want. Like he would tear down the world for you if it wasn't to your liking, build you a new one in a day. I suspect that there is nothing you want that he won't give you if you ask."

Natasha thought about that for a long moment, shoved it aside. _Of course. He is playing a role, just like I am. That's all she's seeing. She's watching the master at work…._

"I will do what I can, Irina."

Irina patted her hand lightly. "That is all anyone can ask. Just remember…there are others in the ministry who would do anything to have this chance, and Fedkin will have to have someone in the position very soon. I would hate for you and your Yakov to miss this chance and regret it later…"

Thunder rumbled in the distance as lightning flashed down to the water's surface and back again.

VIII.

Natasha shoved through the doors to the municipal building's lobby moments before the drizzle turned into a downpour. Except for the old woman at the front desk, the building was deserted. Natasha hurried to the staircase and raced down it. She nodded at the young man who was still at his large desk, still apparently working on the same document as before. He nodded in return, and she saw his hand slip away from what was undoubtedly a weapon mounted under the desktop and toward what she assumed was some kind of signal to notify Petrov of her impending arrival.

She cut swiftly through the shelves, to the vault, past the boxes of records until she was once again in the claustrophobic little space Petrov had carved for himself. Like the man outside, it was as if he'd not moved at all since she had been here last. He was tinkering with what looked like much the same equipment, and his rabbitty little face still wore its slightly puzzled, slightly worried expression.

"Agent Romanoff," he murmured, "what brings you here in such a rush? We had no advanced notice you were coming in for a report…."

 _Is that actually disapproval in his tone?_

She ignored it. "The Fedkins have something big planned for tomorrow night," she began, and then she launched into the tale of the reconnaissance she and the Soldier had done, handing over the small camera to one of the lab techs who scurried away with it to develop the film. She related her strange encounter with the SHIELD agent and the cryptic playground encounter with Irina that had followed. Petrov picked up his ever-present clipboard and began to jot down notes.

"Interesting," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "So she thinks that 'Yakov' loves you so much he'd do anything you ask, hmm? How convincing your deception must be…."

Impatiently, she shrugged and nodded before trying to refocus him on the crucial matter. "What can I say? We're amazing. How much longer do you want us to wait now before we bring them all in? It would seem that a little more patience might yield greater results. On the other hand, tomorrow night is a perfect opportunity to have them all in the same place at the same time, something we haven't had before now and do not know when we will have again."

He tapped his pencil eraser against his lips.

"Do you think that this A.V. you saw listed will be at this party tomorrow?"

"We have every reason to believe he is a new transfer, meaning that it is likely he is planning to defect or that they are going to try to recruit him for it, anyway."

"Hmm. Let's do this. If A.V. does show up, you and the Asset are to end it. Take them all. If A.V. does not, I leave it to your good discretion, Black Widow. If you think the situation would continue to give us information and opportunities, do as you will."

"Understood." She rose to leave, but his voice stopped her with the familiar question as she turned to go.

"And the Asset? Still functioning within mission parameters?"

She turned back, but that silver light flare obscured his eyes again, and she found herself wishing it would stop so she could get a better read on him.

"Yes, comrade. No problems to report."

 _Why does he always ask me that?_ The conversation she'd had with the Soldier earlier about the little inconsistencies of this mission came back to her and unease filled her suddenly.

He made a humming sound, nodded, made another notation on his clipboard, and then with a little shooing motion of his hands, dismissed her and went back to the equipment on the table in front of him.

Her gaze darted around the room as she prepared to leave. A partition she'd assumed was a permanent wall had been slid to the side, and she noticed something it had apparently been obscuring before, a huge, heavy chair with an odd, round metal framework that was being erected around it by two of the technicians. She stopped and stared at it, and Petrov noticed her doing it, stepped up beside her.

"What is that thing for? I've never seen anything like it."

He tilted his head as he ran his eyes over it with something like sorrow in his gaze. "Nothing that should have to concern you, Black Widow. It's only one of the tools of our little trade, something we probably won't need at all, but…" he sighed. "One should always be prepared, yes?" She continued to try to work out what the menacing thing might be for when his mild voice interrupted her thoughts, "Your truelove will be home soon, and you two have plans to make. Better be getting back."

IX.

She slipped into the hotel room to find the Soldier had indeed beaten her there. He was sitting at the little table, jacket thrown carelessly across the bed, tie loosened, shirt sleeves unbuttoned. The horrible synthetic glove still shrouded his left arm. He was holding the two photographs of Stark and Carter in his right hand, and his short hair was mussed as though he'd been threading his fingers through it. The light caught his eyes as he looked at her. They were blue today and troubled.

"Busy day?" he asked as she slipped out of her coat. She saw him lay the pictures down and slide them under the edge of the envelope they'd come in. A large bottle of vodka sat half-empty on the table beside it. Another was on the floor beneath the chair. A third lay beside it. She did some quick calculations in her head, considering how long he possibly could have been there, how much alcohol he'd taken in. It was more than enough to kill a regular man. Even with his metabolism, he'd be feeling some of it, at least until his system burned it away.

She crossed to him, leaned down and rested her cheek on top of his head as she embraced him gently from behind. At first, he remained still, but then his hands came up to rest on her forearms, lightly, and he shifted so he could rest his cheek against her arm. They stayed like that for long moments.

"Tell me?" she whispered.

He shrugged, and she let him go, moving to sit in the other chair beside him. She pulled the pictures out again and looked at them before fanning them out and turning them to face him on the table, asking again with her expression for his response.

He reached for the vodka with a scowl, drank most of what was left, lowered the bottle, and closed his eyes.

 _And it will burn like it's supposed to for a minute. Just for a minute, there will be a moment when it feels like it's going to do its job and soften the world's hard edges. Just for a minute, there will be this incredible, absurd relief that it is working. But then, this thing that we are will reassert itself…._

She reached out with her other hand and gently took the neck of the bottle. He allowed her to pull it from him. She put it on the tabletop and slipped her fingers into his now empty hand. He slowly closed his hand around hers. She waited.

He opened his eyes, and she could see the dullness of the vodka already evaporating like mist on a mirror.

 _So quickly. It does no good at all, does it?_

He studied her, looked back down at the pictures, looked away. Tension was winding in him. She could feel it like the little pings and ticks steel cable makes when it is put under strain, little warning noises of pressure. He let go of her hand, ran it through his hair again, and pushed up from the table. She remained still and watched him as he began to pace.

"I don't know, okay? I can't tell you because I don't know." He laughed harshly. "Fuck. Do you even know how ridiculous I feel saying that? All of the time, it's just 'I don't know.'"

She lifted the picture of Margaret Carter and looked at it again. "But there's something?"

He paused in his pacing long enough to look at the image. Then he grabbed the vodka again and took another large gulp. Natasha said nothing, sat still, still, as he moved in small circles around the room, drinking again and again from the bottle. He looked down at it, swirling the few remaining drops of the liquid around and around. Suddenly, he hurled it at the door.

"This does nothing. _Nothing_!" he yelled. Glass flew, some shards embedding themselves deep into the wood of the door because of the force he'd used to throw it. Still she did not move. He stopped and looked at the dripping, glittering mess the destroyed bottle and its contents had made and he started laughing. It was an awful sound, a hopeless sound. He bent at the waist as if he couldn't get enough air. After a moment, he fell to his knees, hands over his face, and the terrible laughter became a sob.

Natasha stood and crossed to him, kneeling next to him and gently placing her hand on his back. She wanted to embrace him, but she knew the danger of doing it if he wasn't ready for it. He turned and leaned heavily into her, though, his arms wrapping hard around her, pulling her against him as he buried his face in the curve of her neck. She returned the embrace, stroking his neck, his back, and murmuring comforting nonsense.

"Why can't I remember, Natasha? Why? It's like there is a wall between me and everything that matters," he whispered. Then he pulled back slightly and cupped her cheek. "Everything but you," he amended, and he leaned in. "You won't let them take you, will you, little spider?" he murmured gently, his lips just brushing against the corner of her lips as he spoke.

"No, Yasha. Never. I have you, remember? And you have me…."

He pulled back slightly, ran his fingertips across her cheek like he was trying to memorize her by touch, and then he was kissing her. He tasted like salt and vodka, like sadness and love. The kiss was hungry and full of despair. She returned it in equal measure, opening her lips to the demand of his, giving what comfort she could. She could not have told how long they clung to each other there before he pulled away, gently running his hands up and down her back as he rested his forehead against hers.

 _The last of the alcohol cycled through, then._

Softly, she murmured, "Can you tell me now?"

He sighed, and she felt a shiver slide through him. "I know her."

Something as sharp as a sliver of the glass bottle he'd destroyed slid icily into her heart, and she felt her pulse pick up. "You mean Carter?"

He nodded. "I know her."

"How is that even possible?" _This is bad. This is…not possible. It cannot be. He cannot know Margaret Carter. He has to be mistaken. It has to be a glitch. Should I call Petrov? Is this the kind of thing he's been so obscurely warning me about?_

The Soldier shrugged again. "I don't know. I can't _remember._ I've been trying since the first moment you showed me that picture. All I know is that I have seen her before. None of the pieces of memory I have related to her make any sense. I can see her in a red dress talking with some guy in some bombed out bar…. And again in a uniform running toward someone…I can't make out who…."

Natasha thought carefully. "In any of these memories, are the two of you interacting?"

He closed his eyes, considered. "Noooo. No. She is never looking at me in any of them. She only has eyes for the man she's talking to… I'm in the background. I don't think either of them even know I'm around…." He opened his eyes and looked down into hers.

She gripped his arm. "Then maybe…maybe you encountered her before on a previous mission? But she wasn't your target? She's in a uniform you say, and in a building that is bomb-damaged. Maybe you are remembering things from the war, but whatever they do when they reset you buried the details since it was only some casual encounter and not a mission target?"

"And how do you know she wasn't my mission target?"

Natasha replied without hesitation, "Because the woman is still breathing."

His lips quirked slightly. "Vicious little thing." He looked away.

She cupped his cheek and turned his face back to hers. "I speak no more than the truth, and you know it." She paused as another thought came to her. "Also, if there were some danger you'd be recognized, would Petrov or _somebody_ not have pulled the plug on this mission? He knows who she is. He's the one who sent the information to me, after all. He's got your files. Surely command would have stepped in if they thought this would be an issue, if they thought the mission would be compromised…."

He shook his head and shifted away from her slightly. She let him go and he rose from the floor with that innate, supple grace he possessed. Then he held his hand out and pulled her up.

"Enough. It doesn't matter if I remember her or not, ultimately. She is my target now, and I need to know everything you learned today. We have a trap to set."

"Yes," she agreed as they headed to the table again. "And unfortunately, I think we're running out of time."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** More ploteration, now with extra violence! Thanks to YourEverydayEdit for the kind reviews. I took my time and hurried.

* * *

 _But at my back I always hear_

 _Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;_

 _And yonder all before us lie_

 _Deserts of vast eternity._

 _~ from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell_

* * *

I.

Natasha shared every detail she'd gotten from the lunch with Irina and Agent Carter including Irina's cryptic conversation about a promotion for Yakov later that afternoon.

"Has Fedkin said anything to you about any of this?"

The Soldier nodded. "He's been skirting around the edges of something for weeks now. Each day, he lets me in on a few new details, asks me to help him out with one or two more little things. He likes to end each day with a 'meeting' consisting mostly of my having to listen to his philosophies on things while we drink. He's been asking increasingly leading questions about how I feel about life here in the good old USSR lately and plying the drink even more heavily than usual." He tapped one of the empty bottles under the table gently with his foot, making it clink softly against the other. "That's how all this got started today."

"So what do you think his play is?"

The Soldier sat back in the chair, considering the situation. "It could go one of two ways. Either he is looking for an accomplice or a scapegoat. They want Anna and Yakov to help them with this little pipeline to the West they're running, or they are planning to use them as some kind of distraction if things go wrong. Do you have any sense from Irina one way or the other?"

She pondered it a moment. "I lean toward them planning on recruiting us. It doesn't make sense that she would expose the SHIELD agents to anyone she didn't more or less trust. This feels like some kind of interview. And if this A.V. does turn out to be at the party and is a scientist they're trying to assist with defection, that becomes even more true."

There was a pause, then…

"What did Petrov tell you to do about it?"

She had been looking down at the images of the two SHIELD operatives, and his question caught her off-guard. She cut her eyes up to his. He was watching her steadily.

"How did you know I've already talked to Petrov about this?"

He shrugged, the little smile twisting his lips not reaching his eyes at all. "Odds were good. Does it matter?"

"I…no. No, I don't guess so," she frowned at him. He couldn't have followed her. He'd been at the office and then here long enough to consume all that vodka. How had he known? "Petrov said if everyone was there tonight, we were to take them. If A.V. doesn't show, we are to use our own best judgment."

The Soldier continued to regard her steadily. " _Our_ judgment or _yours_ , little widow?"

It was her turn to shrug. "What's the difference?"

"Between the two of us when we're here like this? Nothing. To Petrov? That might be another thing altogether."

She laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it. "You can't possibly be worried about _Petrov_. He's just a busy little bunny making sure we have all the things we need so we can finish this mission. He's as invested in our success as we are."

"Yes. I'm sure he is." He stared at her another moment before pushing away from the table. "We should probably go down and see about dinner before it gets so late they stop serving. I'll get a shower." He stood and began to unbutton the front of his shirt. He removed it, folded it neatly as he walked toward the bathroom, held it in his hands, and looked down at it when he paused in the doorway. "Petrov's also the hand on the reins for both of us, Natasha. No matter how harmless you may think him or how personally ridiculous you find him, you need to keep that fact in mind. Nothing that has been given power over you is ever completely innocuous." And he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

II.

They ate dinner together in the hotel in the restaurant, but their conversation kept hitting odd pauses. She didn't understand his current mood. They were on the verge of completing a long mission, one she knew would please their superiors and end a strain on their national resources. He should have been filled with the same eagerness that she'd felt earlier, the readiness for the close and kill. When they'd been paired in the past, he'd never balked, always doing exactly what was necessary to bring the mission to its end with perfect skill and effort. Instead, now as they came to the end of what should have been their greatest accomplishment as a team, he seemed distant, more remote than he'd been in months and months. It was frustrating.

 _Perhaps it's because of Margaret Carter. Maybe he's still off-balance from trying to remember who she is. He seemed shaken by it._

She took a long drink of the wine on the table before lifting her fork to shuffle bits of the meal around on her plate again. She had no appetite for it. In contrast, he was slowly and methodically eating, cutting each bite of the meal into squares so precise he might have been using a ruler to measure it. Both of them were delaying a return to their room, a return to the conversation they'd left waiting for them there.

Eventually, though, there was nothing left to do but pay the bill and go back upstairs.

III.

She had expected that they would continue the discussion they'd started, but he brushed it aside reminding her that there was reconnaissance work to be done on the Fedkin's apartment building. She looked at him for long moment as he stripped out of the jacket and shirt he'd worn down to dinner. He pulled off the hated glove and freed the silver arm it shrouded when they were Anna and Yakov. They slipped into the dark suits they wore when they were the Widow and the Soldier, shedding all the other aspects of the young couple and becoming their dangerous selves again. Then they were moving silently down the fire escape and heading for their hidden transportation.

Of necessity, neither spoke much, but the quality of the silence between them was different than it had been on other trips like this. She felt that new reserve in him, and the distance he had set between them was puzzling at first. _Is he worried over tomorrow night? Frustrated over not being able to remember Carter? Or angry at me because I went to see Petrov before I came to tell him?_

Puzzlement passed into frustration. Frustration passed into hurt. Hurt slowly dissolved into anger. By the time they'd reached the warehouse and she slid behind him on the motorcycle, it was a fine simmering fury.

IV.

The Soldier and Natasha lay flat on the roof of the apartment building across from the one housing the Fedkins' temporary home. It was another desirable top floor apartment thanks to Fedkin's directorship within the ministry, but the entire building was only four floors high, so their perch looked down and into the lower space. The apartment itself was not as large as the one the Fedkins lived in full-time, but it had a largish terrace facing the sea. Natasha and the Soldier could see a few pieces of furniture already in place outside in preparation for the party on the following evening. The lights in the living area were still on, and Irina and Fedkin were still awake. Fedkin was seated on a greenish sofa, pouring himself a drink. Irina was up and pacing, gesturing as she went.

Natasha and the Soldier memorized the layout of the apartment as they watched the couple inside move around. They murmured little observations about possible problems and revelations in brief phrases that served as a form of shorthand for them. Other than those interactions, there was nothing but silence between them and the sound of the wind from the sea. Unlike other missions, there was no banter, no conversation that wasn't forced by their job.

Eventually, they felt they'd seen all they needed. They returned to the motorcycle and turned it back to the warehouse. He pulled up the ramp, through the door, and next to the office. He hadn't killed the engine or even settled the bike on its stand before she was swinging off the back and heading into the room. She was aware of him watching her, could feel the weight of his gaze on her as she opened the office door and went in, pushing it shut behind her. She found the supplies in the food containers to make tea, and she filled a battered kettle with water from the tap and put it on the small burner.

There was silence outside. Then she heard the soft rattle of the metal door rolling closed, the quiet click of the lock. Another moment passed. There was the rushing sound of heating water in the kettle but nothing else. She resolutely refused to look at the door.

 _Either he'll come in or he won't. If he does, he and I are going to have a discussion. If he doesn't, I'll drink my tea in peace._

 _Then I will go out and find him and quite likely punch him in the face._

V.

The water had boiled, and her tea had been made. The Soldier was still outside, somewhere. Disappointment had mingled with anger, and after a few sips of the strong tea, she pushed it away.

The first drops of the latest round of the seemingly endless winter rains in this place began to slap against the metal roof high above, sharp like a handful of gravel dropped from above. She made a face. She'd been thinking of walking back to the hotel alone. Maybe some space would allow both of them to refocus so they'd be able to move past this and allow her temper to settle some so she could see things more clearly and try to understand. That thought in mind, she headed for the door that led to the warehouse beyond.

 _And rain or no rain, that's still what I'm going to do. It's not like this will be the first time on this trip I've gotten soaked._

He was more or less in the middle of the huge open space, his back to her. He'd removed his weapons harness, his jacket, and his boots and was slowly moving through katas in the heavy black pants he wore on mission and a black tank, holding each form before flowing into the next. The dim light spilling from the door behind her shimmered off the titanium of his left arm. For a moment, she gave herself the pleasure of watching him, enjoying the beauty of his body and his movements, and subconsciously, as she'd been taught since she was a child, both by him and by others, analyzing every aspect of it for exploitable flaws.

Without turning or stopping, he said, "Join me. The practice will do us both good."

She considered it. It was true that she hadn't had a good sparring session since they'd left their apartment for this Black Sea town and its eternal dampness. While they'd been able to sneak up to the roof there and practice, here they'd been weighted down by the Fedkins's social activities and necessary surveillance. She undid the laces of her own boots and slipped them off, unfastened and laid aside her own most obvious weapons from wrist and waist. She didn't take the time to remove every blade and concealed item. It would take too much time, and she knew that despite appearances, chances were good he hadn't done so, either. It was a part of who they were. She slowly bent and stretched as he continued to cycle through the forms. When she was ready, she crossed the space and took up a position across from him as the rain outside picked up in earnest. He finished the last movement and came back to an easy centered stance.

"How are we playing tonight?" he asked lightly.

A little half-smile touched her mouth. "All out and for keeps. Is there another way?"

Something sad and shadowed flickered through his eyes. "No. I suppose not."

VI.

He struck first, right fist punching toward her with that frightening speed. She dodged it, but as she turned, she felt a hard open-handed slap on her ass from his titanium hand. It made her stumble a few steps, and when she regained her stance, she glared at him.

 _That will leave a bruise._

"You did _not_ just swat my ass."

He smirked, shrugged. "You left the opening. Cause and effect."

The anger she'd felt earlier frothed up inside her again, a bubbling acidic tide. She made a formal little nod of acknowledgement in his direction and raised her hands. They continued to circle and feint, neither managing to land a hard blow. He jabbed again as he'd done before, but she pivoted away, swinging back quickly to punch him hard enough in the face to snap his head back and force him a step away. He sucked lightly at the little trickle of blood from his now-split bottom lip. She blew him a kiss and smiled sweetly.

"As you said, you left it open…."

He stared at her with eyes that had gone hot, tongue flicking out to taste the blood again. "It's like that, is it?"

"Afraid so, lover," she purred.

"Alright. Have it your own way, then…" And he closed in.

VII.

If the little class of Widow trainees could see them now, the fight from that fateful day so many months ago would be downgraded to only a minor skirmish. That darkness that had been between them all night drove them both to increasing savagery. The Widow and the Soldier circled each other, struck hard and impossibly fast, dodged, retreated, faked, tumbled, and re-engaged. Both of them landed solid blows to each other, kicks and punches still being pulled back from lethal force, but not by very much.

He caught her with a backhanded blow across the face, and she tasted her own blood. She dragged her hand across it absently, smearing the blood across her chin and cheek while glaring at him. He shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"Not even you can kill with a look, widow. Payback's hell, huh?"

She struck toward him clumsily, as if the rage inside her had started to make her careless, allowed him to grab her wrist, used him for leverage, flipped up neatly, planted both her feet in the middle of his chest, pushed off with all her strength, and threw him backwards to the ground.

"You tell me."

He wasn't down even five seconds, rolling up and rushing at her. She felt her blood singing as she flipped backward from the strikes he threw. When she crouched to sweep his legs out from under him, he reached down, grabbed her ankle, and tossed her. She tumbled through the air like a child's toy thrown hard.

She managed to get a hand down and turn the fall into a roll. He'd been tracking her progress, though, and as she was coming up into a standing position again, he kicked her hard, knocking her off balance and to the floor. She rolled, grabbing his ankle as he sent another kick toward her head, and she twisted with all her strength, yelling as she brought him down.

His weight crashed down over her, and for a moment, they grappled brutally on the floor. She scratched her short nails down his cheek, leaving trails of blood as she viciously struck upward with her knee, trying to catch his groin, but he deflected and took the strike to his outer thigh instead, finding and pinning the wrist of the hand she'd used to attack him to the cold concrete. He slammed her back hard enough to knock the breath out of her momentarily, but she furiously fought on. He was bigger than she, heavier, older, more experienced in combat, but she was angry, so deeply angry with him for pushing her away, for creating separation where she could see no need for it, for _not understanding_ …

With a growl, she pushed hard, flipped them over, straddling him, punched his face hard, once, twice, but the third time, he took her other wrist and rolled them again and she was well and truly pinned.

"Stop fighting me, Natasha," he panted. She could feel his breath washing over her face, and some part of her wanted to yield, wanted kisses instead of this battle.

 _And that just pisses me off even more…_

"Fuck you," she hissed. "No." She bucked again, trying to unseat him, but there was nowhere to go.

He transferred her wrists to his right hand, and she felt the cool silver metal of his left slide around her throat, squeeze warningly. She managed to pull one hand free and scrabbled against the titanium looking for some way to pry it off her.

"Stop," he growled again.

"No," she snarled. "You don't get to win every time." She thrashed under him, but he simply settled more of his weight onto her, immobilizing her.

 _Hateful, huge, heavy, metal-handed, cheating son-of-a…_

His hand tightened to the point of pain, his eyes widened, and he laughed, a short, harsh, incredulous sound. "You think this is me _winning?_ You think any of this ends in a _victory_?" He cursed sharply, and suddenly, she was free, panting, lying alone and staring up through the gloom toward the rafters high above. She heard the sound of the metal door rolling up with a bang as though it had been shoved hard, turned her head to see him straddling the bike, and sans jacket, boots on but not laced, he cranked the big bike and sped out into the rain without looking back.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** And voila, another even longer chapter just for you. In the words of Ella Fitzgerald (or at least in a song she sang), "Gee, baby, ain't I good to you?" (Oh. And, yeah. M. Lots and lots and lots. There's plot, too, though, but start being cautious around part V if you're on one of those pie-free diets.)

* * *

 _Now let us sport us while we may,_

 _And now, like amorous birds of prey,_

 _Rather at once our time devour_

 _Than languish in his slow-chapt power._

 _~ from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell_

* * *

I.

For a while, she just lay there listening to the spatter of the rain falling through the still-open ramp door, feeling the various bruises and cuts from their fight begin to make their presence known as her heart rate slowed. Her gaze focused on the padlock which was lying where he'd tossed it, its hasp twisted and broken. He hadn't even stopped long enough to use the key on it. He'd simply reached down and torn it off, thrown it out of his way.

 _One sympathizes._

She pushed herself to a seated position. Her internal sense of time told her he'd been gone for nearly a half hour. She had no idea where he had gone or if he planned to return.

 _They do say that first fight as a married couple is always a doozy. I guess that's not just an old wives' tale._

She braced for the inevitable pain that would come from standing and forced herself up, wincing. She cast another look at the open door and limped toward it.

 _Ought to find a way to secure it tight, leave his ass out there in that cold rain. Would serve him right,_ she thought as the metal came creaking down. When it was closed, she turned toward the office and made her way back to it. She grabbed the tea she'd pushed away earlier, downed the entire mug, poured more from the tepid pot, and sat down heavily in the desk chair.

Her mind kept stubbornly replaying those last minutes of their fight before he'd left, the pain in his eyes that had gone far beyond whatever they had done to each other physically. She couldn't figure it out, and he wasn't being helpful.

 _What is he so worried about? What is it that is tearing him up? It can't just be that he recognized Carter from the photo. Just that could not possibly be enough._

She finished the last of the tea without coming to any useful conclusion and she sighed. The commingled sweat and blood from their fight made her uniform chilly, clammy, and disgusting, and she decided that if there was no other comfort left, she could at least be clean and dry. She rose, opened one of the trunks in the corner, pulled out a clean pair of cargo pants, a top, and some undergarments, grabbed a towel, a comb, and a bar of soap from a shelf, and headed out the door.

II.

The old employee locker room at the back of the building was ill-lit, so shadows were everywhere. It didn't matter to her, though. There was more than enough light for what she needed.

 _He may have roughed me up some, but I think I'm still competent enough to find my ass – and the rest of it all - in the dark with both hands when necessary._

Lockers were against the short walls facing into the room from both ends. Some of them gaped open as though the last people to use them hadn't cared enough to push them closed again. Here and there, a forgotten comb or sock lay on a shelf like an item in a rusted display case.

Along one of the long walls, a row of aging mirrors hung over heavy, industrial looking stained sinks. The light source was here, too, although only a few of the wall-mounted sconces between the mirrors still worked. Her reflection walked along with her, appearing and disappearing because of the black spots that were slowly eating away the silvering. Now her head disappeared, now her torso. She ignored all of it, reaching down to put her items on a wooden bench someone, possibly the Soldier when he'd set up this little safehouse, had dragged near one of the narrow stalls for just such a purpose. The Natasha behind the mirror did the same, and she paused a moment and looked at the reflection.

The woman in the mirror's hair was tousled, red curls twisting over her shoulders where it had fallen from or been pulled from the band she'd used to pull it back for their night's work. Her green eyes were troubled as they looked back at her, one of them shrouded in a darkening bruise. Her lips were full, too full, the bottom one still swollen although the split that had left the blood smeared across her chin and cheek had already healed.

She unzipped the uniform and peeled it off before draping it across the bench. She'd wash it out later and hang it to dry. She looked at herself in the mirror again, turning so she could study the extent of the damage to her ribs, her back. Bright black and purple bruises dotted her along with more faded yellow and blue patches where lesser injuries had already healed. She stripped off her undergarments in preparation for getting in the shower, but saw the clear shape of a large handprint curving black and blue across one cheek of her buttocks in the reflection. She cursed, frustration welling up in her again when she thought of that arrogant slap.

 _My only satisfaction comes from knowing he has to look almost as bad._

Whatever curtains had once hung for privacy were long since gone, so she stepped into the little space and twisted the knob for the hot water.

 _At least this still works._

It cascaded over her, the heat creeping into her bones and the pressure of the spray unknotting sore muscles. She braced her hands on the wall in front of her, and the world was washed out in white noise from the rain on the roof and the hiss of the spray.

 _Wish I could set my mind to some kind of white noise, too, some way I could just flip a switch and not think…_

Finally, she turned off the water and turned around to reach for her towel. Her fingers hadn't quite closed around it when she registered the reflection of him leaning against the wall next to the doorway watching her.

III.

He was dripping wet, obviously just come in from wherever his earlier flight had sent him. He'd discarded the boots again somewhere between the main floor and this locker room, and a small puddle of water pooled at his bare feet.

She continued to reach for the towel as though she'd known he'd been there the whole time, lifted it, began drying off.

"What? Too shy to join me?"

He made no reply, didn't even seem to have heard her.

 _Well, fuck you very much, too, then…._

"Shame. The last time was a lot of fun…" Her voice was a low purr that promised debauchery on a scale heretofore unknown. She coupled it with a smoldering look, the kind she used to make her prey promise her anything she wanted. Then she turned her back to him completely and did her level best to act as though he had disappeared completely from her universe. Instead, she focused on getting every drop of water off the skin of her arms, her legs. She heard the slightest scrape of movement, and she glanced at him without turning her head. He was just outside the opening of the shower looking down at her body, brow furrowed.

She continued to ignore him, reached up to twist her hair up into a loose knot to get it out of her face, and she felt the barest graze of his fingertip across her backside near the bruise. She froze completely and slowly turned her head to look at him, eyes narrowed.

"Something you wanted?" her tone would have made Siberian winter seem sultry and tropical.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "For this," he gently ran that fingertip over her again, and in spite of her rekindling anger, she felt her skin break out in goosebumps.

"And for the rest of it?" She turned slowly, gesturing toward the other obvious damage to her body, and his eyes traced over the rest of her.

He nodded. "All that, too. I was angry, and I shouldn't have…"

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you _dare_ ," she hissed.

He looked confused. "Don't what?"

She stepped out of the narrow little stall, towel hanging forgotten in her hand as she pushed into his space, jabbed him with her index finger.

"Don't you dare start acting like I am some kind of fragile, spun-glass ballerina doll who can't deal with things, can't give as good as she gets." She grasped his wet tank top in her hand, pulled at it hard enough to reveal some of the black and blue marks speckling his body. "Don't act like I didn't give you every one of those. And don't act like you didn't have them coming." She let go of him and shoved him just a little. He took a half step back to compensate. She used the space to stalk around him, grabbing up the comb and wrapping the towel around her as she went toward the row of mirrors. She began to untangle her hair with short irritable strokes of the plastic comb, cursing internally when she hit knot after knot.

 _No fucking conditioner._

He crossed the small room and stood behind her. She ignored him.

"Natasha," he whispered.

Her lips thinned as she hit a particularly nasty snag, and she dropped the comb in the sink and moved to walk away from him again. He caught her arm.

"Don't go. We need to…," he said softly.

"Don't you even say it. Don't you even. Say. It. Yeah, we need to talk. Every bit as much as we needed to talk earlier tonight at dinner. Every bit as much as we needed to talk instead of throwing punches at each other. Every bit as much as we needed to talk when you went running off afterward. Three strikes and you're out, right? Isn't that the rule in that American game you're so fond of?"

"Why are you so angry with me?" he asked, his own voice starting to rise.

"Because you've shut down, shut me out, given up, and I don't know _why_!"

He looked as if she'd slapped him, but she continued.

"You saw that picture of Carter, and you've gone all weird on me. You might as well have slammed a door in my face with a sign on it saying, 'Keep Out.'"

"I told you everything I remember about her…"

"And then you stopped telling me anything. What's all this with Petrov? Are the two of you competing for some cryptic oracle of doom prize? Because nothing else with either of you is making sense. You warn me not to trust him, he's constantly asking me if 'the Asset is performing within mission parameters,' like you're some kind of engine that needs a new timing belt…."

His face went still and white, and she stopped.

"He…has been asking you questions about me?"

"He's our handler, our representative from command. So yes. He asks me about you. He asks me about me. It is the nature of his little rabbitty being to ask."

He paced away to lean against one hand, bracing against the tile facing of the shower stall. She could see the tension in every muscle of his back and shoulders.

"And what do you tell him?" His voice was grim, hollow in a way she'd not heard from him since the first days they'd worked together. _Or since the last time he went away and came back…other._

"I tell him the same thing every time, that you are performing admirably and just as required."

He looked at her sharply over his shoulder, and she could see suspicion in his eyes for just a moment. Then he sighed and turned fully, running his hand over his face, pausing with it covering his mouth as he studied her.

"I don't want to fight with you. I… can't bear it." He dropped his hand and leaned back against the little tile wall.

She gestured in frustration. "Then don't. Don't keep shutting me out." He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "And don't tell me that you're not. I'm not a fool, Yasha."

For a moment, he just looked tired. "No. And I never thought that you were." They stood that way, the only sound the continual beating of the rain above them.

"Get your comb and come here," he murmured at last. She gave him a mutinous look, and he continued. "I'm not ignoring what you said. I'm going to try to tell you and I'll work those knots out of your hair while I do." She still looked at him, deciding. The tiniest flicker of a smile chased across his lips. "It will give me something useful to do with my hands while we talk." She finally nodded and retrieved the comb. There was something slightly incongruous about the image of him with the blue plastic comb in his silver titanium hand. He sat her down on the bench in front of him, and she felt his fingers begin to work the comb through the tangles, starting at the ends with gentle patience.

"You know I go away sometimes. You know I come back…different."

She nodded, watching him in the mirrors in front of them. He didn't look up at her, kept his focus on the movement of the comb.

"I told you this is the longest I can ever remember being with one handler without having been _reset_."

"What do they do to you, Yasha?"

His hands stilled, and she heard him take a trembling breath. She could see him begin to shake a little in the reflection. His mouth opened, but no voice came out. She reached quickly behind her and grabbed one of his hands with her own. He didn't look up. He just struggled and shook.

"No. It's okay."

He shuddered, swallowed. "I just can't. I just…can't. I'm sorry. I'm trying. There are some things that they've…they've…"

She squeezed his hand. "Talk about something else. Anything else. It's okay."

He nodded, and after a moment, he pulled his hand from hers slightly and she let go. He resumed working on the tangles of her wet hair.

"They always reset me at the end of a mission. The…procedure…seems to vary. Sometimes I can remember many things. There are some things that I remember all the way back to my very first handlers. Other things, other times, all I can remember is a broken image, like having the corner of a burned photograph left after a fire. The handlers have ways of calling even these shards back up, but they bury them inside me so deep. Not even my memories are my own…."

She watched him, and her heart was breaking for him. He was touching her so gently, so softly, while he talked about the horror of being unmade….

"The longer I am away from the wipe, or a hard reset, a breaking reset, the more some memories come back. When we fought before, I was fresh out of the wipe. When I'm like that, I don't know who I am or where I am or anything except what they tell me. There is a target and I am a weapon. The greatest satisfaction possible for me is eliminating the thing they told me to destroy. In those times, it feels like…like I'm only whole when I'm killing."

The comb stroked gently, gently through her hair.

"They use the wipe on me when I…when I…begin to be problematic, when I _malfunction_."

She remembered the security guards flying from the little operating theater in their headquarters. She remembered the pile of bodies barely able to restrain him inside, the broken curses, his hand reaching toward her from beneath it all.

 _Malfunction, indeed. Another Red Room phrase, no doubt._

And it clicked into place. Petrov had also been involved in that little struggle. Little rabbitty Petrov with his file folder. Petrov and his questions. Petrov and his clipboard and his intrusive curiosity.

"Petrov knows how to reset you, doesn't he?"

The Soldier took another shivering breath. "It is one of his primary functions as my current mission handler. He had reset me in the past at the base. He will again when he deems it necessary to ensure I maintain proper mission-ready status in every way or when command orders him to for other reasons."

"And you're afraid he's going to reset you when this is over."

"When it's over. Tomorrow morning. Any time he thinks 'the Asset is performing below the threshold mission standards require.'" The cadence and pattern of his voice changed with the last, and although the pitch was the Soldier's, the accent was Petrov as strongly as if he were speaking directly from the Soldier's mouth. Still, the comb worked through her hair gently, gently….

"But if we are successful, why would he see the need to reset you? If we capture these agents, won't that show him that you are functioning as they desire? What else could they ask of you?"

He sighed. "You don't understand. They don't _ask_ anything of me at all. Nobody does. Nobody has for as long as I can remember. They _order_ me to do things. They punish me if it isn't done exactly to their desire, and sometimes they punish me if it is just because they can. They send me out to rend and tear and when it's over, they clean me off, repair any damage, and put me in storage until I'm needed again like any other good weapon." His hands stopped and he met her eyes in the mirror for the first time as his hands settle lightly, lightly on her shoulders. "Nobody ever _asks_ because I am not a person to any of them. Nobody but you."

"Yasha…" she murmured.

"No. You have to understand. Do you remember when you were a little girl and Ivanov made us fight? Do you remember what came after? If Petrov resets me," he stopped, took a breath. " _When…_ Petrov resets me, I'll lose you. They will take you from me. The way you make me feel… nothing has made me feel _anything_ for… longer than I can even recall. Since those first days when they took everything I had been away and reforged me into their machine. If they find out about this thing we have, if they even suspect and can't find a way to make it useful to them, if they decide for even half a minute that I might be becoming something other than their undefeatable weapon, they will destroy it."

She stood, stepped around the end of the bench and wrapped her arms tight around him. Tears stung in the corners of her eyes, she who hadn't cried since she was a little girl and learned that it did no good, that it only brought taunting from one's peers and abuse from one's superiors. She couldn't seem to stop them now, though…

She felt him hesitate before embracing her in return, and then he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head before he continued softly, so very softly.

"There is worse. If they decide it amuses them, my fierce little spider, they will wipe me and make _me_ destroy it…make me destroy _you_ … while they watch."

She pulled away from him, recognition of the truth in his horrible statement settling into her bone-deep. This, then, was the shadow that had been in his eyes for so long. This was the truth behind the statement Mother had made so long ago. This was the thing stalking them, grinning and winking obscenely from the darkness.

She didn't offer up useless platitudes. She didn't tell him that Petrov and Ivanov and the Red Room couldn't rip them from each other. She'd been raised there, forged and tempered there, shaped with careful application of malice there, and she understood that it was a place with horror beyond limits. Instead, she started looking for a solution.

It came to her instantly, almost as if it had only been waiting for her to start seeking to leap to her attention.

"What if…" she licked her lips. "What if they couldn't find you to reset you? What if they couldn't find either of us?" Her heart was pounding in her ears. He ran his hands lightly down her arms, headed tilted in puzzlement.

"What if…Yasha, what if we just ran away?"

IV.

His hand gripped tightly. "Don't even say it, Natasha. Don't even think it. They will know."

"But we could try…"

He let her go and began to pace, furrowing his hand through his drying hair. "Do you think I haven't tried? In all this time, do you really think I haven't thought of this even once?"

"Did you?"

"Yes. And a couple of times, it seemed like I even got really close. Most recently right after that mission to Kiev. My mission handler was killed in crossfire, and I was all the way to East Germany before they tracked me down somehow. Don't you remember how that ended?" he ended with a bitter chuckle.

She did. _Blood on the floor and broken English, Petrov and Ivanov and the dead technicians and his eyes pleading with her for help…._

She sat on the bench, thinking, wincing slightly when her bruised backside made contact with the wood. _There has to be a way. There is always a way…._

Again, like a gift dropped by divine intervention into her lap, it came to her.

"The SHIELD agents. Carter and Stark. They're already set up to help people defect. What if we were some of them?"

He stopped cold and turned to look at her.

"Why would they help us?"

"We know things, you and I, Yasha. Names, locations, strategies. We know secrets."

He took a step closer to her, almost as if her words were pulling him toward her against his will. "Do we?"

She nodded. "We do. Many things they would want to know."

He sat down beside her on the bench. "But how do we know that they'd be any better masters than the ones we have? That they wouldn't just throw us into prison and leave us to rot when they're done with us? That they wouldn't chain us down and cut us up to see what makes us tick? Or worse yet, drain us of information and send us back here?" He shivered. She didn't miss that he ranked a return to the KGB's tender mercies even lower than vivisection.

"I don't think they work that way. And besides, even if they do, will any of them know how to reset you?"

He shook his head.

"Then how much of a problem could they possibly manage to be to the two of us? If they won't give us safety, if they try to chain us down and slice us up, we'll kill as many as we have to and run until we find a place that will."

He was looking at her with something complicated in his eyes, maybe it was awe, maybe it was fear. Maybe, just maybe it was hope. She couldn't tell, but he reached out and gently, gently stroked her cheek.

"To the end of the line?" He smiled at her, that unbelievably lovely, fragile thing she saw so rarely.

"Yes. I've got you and you've got me. To the end of the line." And she reached out to pull him into her arms.

V.

For all that their battle earlier had been full of aggression and fury, the kisses they exchanged now were soft, sweet, and lingering. They were both bruised, inside and out, and the extremes of the day had taken their toll despite the fortifying serum that ran through them both busily repairing the damage they'd done to one another.

His fingertips traced softly down from where he'd cupped her face, and as they traveled past her throat, she made a little noise as they brushed the marks he'd left, still slightly sore. He instantly lowered his head and pressed a kiss to each, apologizing with his touch for the damage. She pulled at his tank top until he sat back and let her remove it. She inspected him, pressed her lips to a bruise on his collarbone, a much larger, darker one dead-center in the middle of his chest.

He gave a gentle, silent chuckle at her touch. "Little widow who tried to break my heart now wants to heal it with her kiss," he murmured, pulling her back up to meet his lips. She felt his index finger slide into the top of the towel where it was wrapped around her and tug once. It parted, and his hands found her breasts, thumbs grazing back and forth across her nipples as his tongue swept in against her own.

She moaned softly into his mouth, and her hands ran their own recon mission down his abdomen to pop open the button on his fly and pull down the zipper. He broke the kiss, his head falling back when she closed her hand around him and stroked once, again, again.

He grabbed her wrists gently and tried to tug her hands away, hungrily seeking her mouth again. "You can't…" he murmured between kisses, "Tonight has been too much. I won't be able to last if you…"

"Shh," she whispered. "I've got you, remember?" And she slid to the floor between his knees.

"Natasha," he groaned, his hands again framing her face to stop her. "I mean it. You don't have to…"

She smiled slightly and turned her face to press a kiss into his palm. "Hmm. But look, here's my perfect opening." She pumped him and his grip on her loosened enough for her to lower her mouth and swipe her tongue across his glistening crown. His sharp intake of breath made her smile again. "Gotta take it. Cause and effect," she murmured against his skin, and then she opened her mouth and sucked him down.

The hands that had been trying to hold her back now slid through her hair as he gasped, hips arching up toward the heat of her mouth. She stroked her tongue over him, seeking the sensitive ridge just below the head, and he thrust helplessly against her mouth before regaining control of himself, muttering in broken and profane English and Russian, switching back and forth as she worked him.

"So good. Fuck, so…so…good. My beautiful widow, sweet incredible little doll…. Can't resist you. You're going to take it from me with your hot little mouth…"

She hummed her pleasure, looked up to find him staring down at her, eyes gone storm blue and pupils blown, and she slipped her fingers between his legs to stroke, cup, and caress. His control was eroding. She could feel it in the tremors that ripped through him, in the desperate clutch and release of his fingers on the back of her head as he fought against the desire to push her down, in the twitching of his hips as he held himself back from fucking her mouth in search of release.

She'd never enjoyed this act even though it certainly had been a part of her training since having a beautiful woman on her knees with her mouth open in front of most men will also open all kinds of doors. Even the faint promise of having a beautiful woman willing to think seriously about getting down on her knees with her mouth open had been sufficient for Natasha to get what she'd needed on countless occasions. The actual event when it had been required had always been one of those unpleasant necessities of her field, something like the medical exams the doctors had done annually until she passed through the serum and the sterilization process, something she did while sending her mind away to another place, a means to an end that had almost nothing to do with the real her inside.

How different it was with him, though, her beautiful Soldier. How powerful it was to feel him shudder for her, to hear him brokenly calling out her name as she shifted her tongue against him, shifted her grip to brush a finger against him lower, to feel him trying to resist the inevitable demands of his body and her mouth. How arousing it was to know that he was going to shatter and that she would be the reason for it. She purred again against him, and his hips began to rock up from the wooden bench despite his efforts at control.

"Natasha," he pulled at her hair. "I'm going to… You have to stop, or I'll…"

She met his gaze again and pushed down until the swollen head brushed the back of her throat, pressed the tip of her index finger ever so gently against the tight ring of his ass, and his entire body bucked.

 _Just a little more. You've done it to me time after time. My turn. Come apart for me._

"Ah," he moaned desperately, "can't…can't…stop it… Take it then," and the hand in her hair fisted and held her as his hips bucked and the taste of his seed flooded her mouth again and again. "Take it all," he gasped, "until there's nothing left of me."

VI.

He pulled her up across his lap and into his arms as he kissed her, growling at the taste of himself on her tongue. She moaned as his fingers slid unerringly between her thighs, teasing and testing.

"Enjoyed breaking me down, didn't you?"

She smiled against his mouth, and as an answer sucked his tongue with the same slow strokes she'd just used to such effect elsewhere. Then it was her turn to gasp as he thrust two fingers into her, crooking them ruthlessly. His mouth was open, kissing and biting at the sensitive places along the line of her neck, and that voice was in her ear, dark, carnal.

"Liked it when I came on that talented tongue. Liked it so much that you're absolutely fucking soaked for me, doll. Wet and tight and ready for anything I have in mind, aren't you?" His hand was relentless within her and shifted so his thumb could trace delicate patterns over her swollen bud.

"Yasha," she groaned, grinding her hips up toward his hand in search of...something..., "please."

"Please what? Please this?" He thrust his fingers into her hard, and her head fell back as she grabbed at his shoulders, short nails digging in as his fingers brushed over the spot inside her that made her entire body shiver and yearn.

 _It's bliss. It's everything. It's…not enough…._

"Or maybe you meant, please this…" He shifted, lifting her like she was weightless and laying her down along the bench. He knelt at the end of it and pulled her thighs across his shoulders before burying his face between her legs.

She cried out as he lapped and sucked, gripping his head to hold him against her, keening when he slipped his fingers back inside her to resume their caress. She was bucking against his hand and his mouth, mind gone wonderfully blank, but it still wasn't enough….

As if he could read her mind, he rose, pulled her up, kissing her hard. It was her turn to taste herself on his lips, and she did some growling of her own. He was walking her back step by step, but she didn't even really notice they were moving until the cold porcelain of the sink pressed against her. She jumped and turned to look. He'd moved them across the room. She glanced up at him in the mirror to find his eyes locked on hers, predatory and hungry. He crowded into her, pressing her against the sink, and she could feel him hard and ready again against her. He bent to kiss her neck, his eyes still holding hers in the glass, and she could feel the urgency of his erection pressing against her.

"You know what I really think you meant?" His hands crept down across her hips beginning to pull her gently backwards as he leaned down over her. His feet were pressing against the inside of hers, urging her to shuffle into a wider stance, and slowly she was bent over the sink, hands braced against the cold porcelain, his massive body burning against hers from behind.

She shook her head, unable to form words, unable to look away.

"I think you wanted this," he growled, and he tugged her backwards as he thrust into her. She gasped as he filled her, her eyes chained to his, her mouth open as she struggled for air. His right hand slid up from her hip, across her sensitive breast, across her shoulder to anchor her to him as he began to move faster, harder. She couldn't look away, couldn't stop watching, could do nothing but follow with her eyes when the titanium hand left her hip to cup her mound, when two fingers pressed in to circle slickly over her clit. Her gaze flickered back and forth from his body working hers to his fingers exploring to his expressions as he watched it all himself. Suddenly, his eyes met hers, and the connection she felt with him, the rush of emotions in his eyes was the final straw. She came hard, clenching him, sobbing with the pleasure of it, and he groaned as she tightened, thrusting slow, steady, deep, drawing out the orgasm before letting himself go over.

VII.

Eventually, when they could move again, they scraped up enough energy to lean against one another in the shower trading tender caresses and soft kisses until they were clean, and then stumbled toward the cot in the office. They wrapped their arms around each other tightly, each clinging to the other like an anchor. He ran his hand gently, slowly, up and down her back.

"Yasha?" she murmured, voice filled with sleep.

"Hmm," he responded drowsily.

"Meant what I said. Got you. No matter what."

He kissed her shoulder and held her a little tighter as sleep pulled them down. Outside, the storm raged on, waiting for them.

* * *

 **For the love of Thor, folks, review. (Or Cap, if Thor's not your speed. Or Tony. Or Bucky. Or Sam. Or….)**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Thanks to my dear reviewers unstablemolecule, jeps, and JJ for the kind words. There's been a lot of curiosity about what Howard and Peggy might be doing here. Let's look into that together, shall we?

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" _I met a lot of people in Europe. I even encountered myself."_

 _~James Baldwin_

" _Know thyself."_

 _~ one of the Delphic maxims_

* * *

I.

Natasha felt an unexpected rill of nerves as she checked her appearance in the mirror one last time. She'd not been nervous before a mission since her first solo assassination assignment, the murder of a French diplomat in his hotel bathroom after she'd allowed him to think he was seducing her at a party following a performance of the ballet in Moscow. She remembered having been far more nervous about the killing than about being on-stage before a sold-out crowd, and her dancing that night had been truly superb according to the director of the ballet corps. Her performance slitting the wrists of the diplomat and slipping out of the hotel unseen had also been superb. Since that first kill, she had always found that her focus on her orders and the task itself precluded thinking about "what-ifs." Now, though, impossibly more might be on the line, and she was running through scenario after scenario in her mind trying to make sure that somehow success could be achieved or at the very least that true disaster could be averted.

 _We're going to run away_.

If Carter and Stark would help them. If they really were running some kind of pipeline. If they could be convinced that two scientifically-altered, slightly-used assassins were worthy candidates. _If. If. If…_

She closed her eyes.

 _Now is not the time to suddenly develop a paralyzing sense of fear. Now is the time for bold action. Every other mission was just a practice for this one, maybe, dress rehearsals. Time to take the stage for real._

When she opened her eyes again, except for a spot of high color in her cheeks, the woman in the mirror gazed steadily back at her. She rose, gathered her purse and coat, and went downstairs to meet Yasha who was already hailing a cab.

II.

The party was already going strong when the Widow and the Soldier climbed the final flight of stairs and came to the door of the apartment. Someone had tuned the Fedkins' radio to a station playing lively music, and the hum of happy conversation could be heard even before the door opened. Irina swept toward them, taking their coats and ushering them into the living room. Beyond it, the weather was holding for once, stars actually visible in the night sky seen through the large open sliding glass doors leading out onto the terrace. Partygoers had broken themselves into clumps here and there, chatting and laughing with each other.

Fedkin came and claimed the Soldier swiftly, shaking his hand and giving Natasha a little hug before gesturing to a group of men standing out near the terrace railing. Before he went, the Soldier kissed her cheek softly and whispered in her ear, "Got you." Fedkin dragged him off, laughing and teasing him about his devotion to his little wife.

When they were gone, Natasha stood for a moment scanning the crowd. She didn't see Carter or Stark anywhere. There were people she didn't know everywhere, and she wondered if one of them might be the mysterious A.V. Then Irina was back at her side and she was being led away herself.

Half an hour passed, and while people continued to stream in intermittently, the two SHIELD agents were not among them. Natasha had no time to talk to the Soldier about it, though. The orbits of their two groups rarely crossed as Irina towed Natasha from location to location with her and the group of men Fedkin had steered the Soldier to mostly stayed put. Natasha exchanged glances with the Soldier briefly, and she smiled just the tiniest bit, encouragingly. She didn't feel it inside, though. She wondered if he was making backup plans and revisions to strategy the way she was and decided that was a ridiculous question.

 _Since he taught me most of this kind of seat-of-the-pants adjustment strategy during missions that went sideways, it's absurd to think he's not doing exactly this same thing._

It was comforting to think that. No matter what happened next, she wasn't alone.

 _And since he is one of the most devious and dangerous individuals I've ever known, it is more comforting still…._

Just as she was about to find some excuse to go over and confer with the Soldier, Irina looked up at the door, beaming. "Look, dear," she murmured to Natasha. "It's Mr. and Mrs. Rogers! Come with me to greet them." Assuming she would be followed, Irina made her way to the two agents now standing in the doorway.

 _Here comes our future,_ thought Natasha, and she put on her best Anna smile and followed.

III.

As she crossed to them, her nerves evaporated as training literally beaten into her snapped its protocols into place and she began analysis of the two. Carter stood seemingly at complete ease in her skirt and blouse, shoulders back, that distant little smile curving her ruby lips. She was reaching out to give Irina a polite hug, but Natasha didn't miss that her eyes were moving intently and quickly over the room as the SHIELD agent did her own automatic risk assessment of those present.

It was the first time Natasha had seen Stark without looking through a telephoto lens. As he had been that night, he was dressed conservatively but very, very well. For those who knew how to look for it, his apparel screamed bespoke tailoring and exclusive shops. Unlike his "wife," Stark did not appear calm at all. His brow was slightly furrowed as he scanned the room, and she had the feeling that he was impatiently looking for something or someone. When Fedkin came forward a moment later, some of the frustration in his expression cleared. Stark handed Carter his coat in the automatic and distracted manner of a man who was used to having an assistant or _someone_ to follow behind him and take such things, and he completely missed the way that Carter froze ever-so-slightly before taking his coat, her smile becoming just the tiniest bit strained. The two men shook hands and quickly moved toward the bar where they began mixing drinks and talking intently.

Natasha didn't miss the exchange at all, though.

 _Don't particularly like being his keeper, do you, agent? I bet there will be payback for that later on…._

By the time Natasha reached Irina and Carter, the two women had turned to include her in their little circle. They exchanged brief greetings, and Irina took both coats from Carter and disappeared momentarily to put them away.

Carter turned her attention to Natasha, running that evaluating gaze over her. "So good to see you again, Anna. Was your husband able to come tonight as well?"

Natasha smiled her sweetest Anna smile. "He was commandeered by Fedkin the minute we got here, much like yours was." She gestured toward the group of men still clustered near the balcony railing.

"Ah. Yes. I see the herd instinct continues to run strong even with Russian males. Safety in numbers and all that," Carter's smile was wry as she studied them. "Do you think they're talking shop or politics?"

Natasha turned to look at them, gauged their boisterousness and their gestures. "A little early yet for the politics and too little vodka consumed. They're probably still hashing over ministry business."

Carter's gaze slid back to her briefly, this time a little more interestedly. "That's a fairly astute observation of the nature of men for someone so recently married. No mystery left in the world, then?"

Natasha smiled and shook her head. "Product of growing up with a father who worked in the ministry, I guess." _And thank whoever came up with that detail in my background file for it._ "No mystery left about the behavior of ministry employees for a long, long time."

"Hmm," was Carter's noncommittal reply. Then, "Is that your husband?" Carter gestured toward the group of men. The Soldier was standing with his back to them, leaning heavily on the cane he carried as part of his persona as the maimed Yakov Sokolov. He was deep in conversation with some of the other men. "Irina mentioned he'd been injured during his military service."

"Yes. He was. It hasn't slowed him down that much, though. In fact, nothing has ever slowed down Yasha for long."

"Did you know him before the injury? How long have you two been together?"

Natasha knew her backstory well. The two of them had grown up in the same small provincial town. They'd known each other always, been sweethearts on the verge of marriage when he went into the military, had continued with the plans despite his injury.

 _We're practically a romantic film plot, so much sugar it would rot the teeth if consumed…._

"Oh, yes. I knew him before, ever since I was just a small girl. I grew up with him always underfoot."

 _A lie that is not a lie. The very best kind._

"I see," said Carter, sounding amused. "Destined to be together, then, I guess."

She kept her eyes focused on the Soldier's broad shoulders and back, allowing her lips to turn up at the corners in a little smile as she thought of him as her partner, as her lover, of how good they were together in every way she'd found so far, aware the whole time of Carter's scrutiny.

"Perhaps. If one believes in that kind of thing."

"You don't believe in fate, Anna? I thought all good Russians did."

Natasha smiled. "Maybe. But we don't like being forced to admit it."

A moment later, Irina returned, and the trio floated into the larger body of guests.

IV.

The women mixed and mingled, chatting and socializing, but Natasha didn't miss that Carter and Irina always made sure she stayed right with them. She chose to take it as a good sign and continued waiting for an opening that would allow her to talk with Carter alone. She and the Soldier had decided that this strategy would be best since Carter had already met "Anna" and would be more likely to listen to her than Stark would be to listen to the Soldier after meeting him for the very first time.

Natasha saw Fedkin and Stark finally move away to join the group of men outside. She watched as Fedkin began to perform introductions, but when Stark looked up at the Soldier to acknowledge his greeting, she saw Stark's face go pale. He hesitated just the tiniest moment before meeting the Soldier's outstretched hand, eyes searching the Soldier's face again and again. Fedkin continued to introduce Stark to the others, but Natasha noticed that he kept looking at the Soldier as if…as if…

 _As if he's seen something somehow impossible. As if he's seen a ghost._

The first tendrils of unease unfurled in Natasha's belly as the discussion outside continued. She noticed that Fedkin and Stark had started talking to the Soldier in a smaller grouping inside the larger one. Stark seemed to be asking lots of questions, and he was making a definite effort to stop looking at the Soldier like he was some kind of dark miracle, but he wasn't succeeding very well.

 _Whatever else he may be, Stark is not trained in espionage._

Every warning bell in Natasha went off at full alarm as she saw Stark make some excuse a few minutes later and head for the cluster of guests where Irina, Carter, and she were standing.

"Hon," he said, slipping his arm around Carter's waist and favoring the group with a smile that managed to be equal parts sheepish apology and charisma, "I'm going to steal you away for just a minute. You have to try this dish Irina's got out over here at the bar. You'll just adore it."

Carter rolled her eyes and shook her head, patting his hand fondly with her own. "Meaning he wants me to taste it so I can get the recipe and make it for him later on, no doubt. Excuse me. I'll be right back."

As they strolled slowly over to the bar, they were talking intently. Natasha glanced at the Soldier to find him already looking her way. She could see concern in his eyes. He, too, had noticed Stark's odd behavior. She smiled at him a little, as though they were just the newlyweds they were pretending to be, people for whom the population of the world had been reduced to just the two of them, and she made a quiet excuse to Irina and crossed the room as he walked forward to meet her, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips gently before leading her to a quieter spot away from the group he'd been with. He gestured as if he were pointing out something he'd noticed in the distance on the water, and she wrapped her arm around him and leaned against him.

"What the hell was that? It looked like you jabbed him with an electric prod," she whispered, snuggling into his side.

He smiled down at her fondly, looked back at the light glinting off the dark sea. "I have no idea. He was like that from the first moment he looked at me."

"You said you remember something about Carter. What about him? Is it possible he was the man in those memories?"

He thought for a moment and shook his head. "No. I'm not sure who that man is, but I know it wasn't Stark. He was taller, had a larger build, blond instead of dark…."

She considered the issue while she raised her hand and pointed at a distant ship sailing slowly, running lights spangling the sea with a brief spot of color. "What did he say?"

"He asked me only the usual questions about where I was from, if I'd been in the war. He was very concerned with the war, actually, but perhaps that is because Fedkin told him about me or because of my 'injury.' Some people have a morbid curiosity about it."

She smiled up at him as though he'd said something clever or touching, looked down again. "Could you tell if he bought the story?"

He brought his right hand up and gently brushed a strand of her hair away from her cheek where the wind had teased it. "I would say not. He is either exceptionally bad at this game we play or I've misread him completely."

 _And the chances of that are beyond low…._

"His heart is also racing, pounding at the pulse points in his neck and temples hard enough for me to see, and he used his handkerchief to wipe his forehead twice despite this cool evening."

Although they should have been able to hear what was being said, there was too much interference with other conversations, the sound of wind and waves, and the traffic coming up from the street below, so they'd managed to position themselves in such a way that they could keep an eye on Stark and Carter at the buffet out of their peripheral vision. Stark had his back to them and was talking. Despite what she suspected about the level of training the other woman had, she saw Carter take a sudden breath, eyes widening and flying to where Natasha and the Soldier were standing.

She felt the Soldier become incredibly still beside her and knew he'd seen the reaction, too. She cursed softly, sighed, and turned her head to consider the sea again. "Yeah. That's not promising at all. What do you want to do? Stay or go?"

"I think we have to see it through now. There's no sign of A.V. yet for one thing. For another, if Stark is as spooked as he seems, we may never have another opportunity to talk with them."

She ran her hand lightly over his back, the solid feeling of well-concealed weapons comforting to her as her fingertips encountered their shrouded shapes.

"And if it all goes to hell," she murmured, leaving the question unfinished.

He looked down at her and smiled, taking her hand again as they prepared to face whatever came next. "Then we burn." His fingers tightened around hers. "But, little spider, I promise you, so do they."

V.

She crossed back to where Irina was holding court in the living room and took a seat on one of the sofas on the side of the square seating arrangement. The women gathered there were chatting about a project their local branch of the women's volunteer society was trying to put together, and Irina was perfectly in her element. She offered her opinion on the best ways to accomplish the goals the women had set, and Natasha had to feel just a little sorry for the actual chair of the local committee as Irina talked over her again and again. One by one, the other women who were not the target of her expertise were finding people across the room they urgently needed to see or excusing themselves quietly to the restroom to escape.

Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware that Carter and Stark were separating. Fedkin looked up when Stark was about half-way across the room, took in his expression, and made excuses to the group of guests he'd been talking with before going to join him. The two conferred briefly and then Stark was pulling Fedkin toward the hallway leading to the other rooms in the apartment by a firm grip on his elbow. Neither man looked back.

Carter came and sat down next to Natasha. At first, she listened just as Natasha was doing, but Natasha could practically feel the tension boiling off the other woman. She made sure to keep her own body language exactly what one would expect of Anna Sokolov, attentive, a little soft, a little distracted by the presence of her husband across the room. She had expected Carter to come over and ask her questions related to whatever it was that was spooking Stark and her, but the agent remained quiet, her focus across the room on the Soldier.

After a few moments, she turned to Natasha with a little smile.

"You know, it occurs to me that I never have been formally introduced to your husband. Howard was just telling me how impressed he was with all the wonderful things Fedkin has been relating about your young Sokolov at work, but somehow in the shuffle this evening, we haven't had a chance to meet."

 _As the Americans say, let's take this bull by the horns, then._

"I can fix that for you, Mrs. Rogers," she said, waving at the Soldier to join them. He glanced from woman to woman, smiled just a little at Natasha, and excused himself from the man he was talking to. As he crossed to join them, she heard the agent's reply.

"Please. I must insist you call me Peggy."

"Alright. Peggy it is."

VI.

The rest of Irina's little coterie had managed to escape. Only Irina herself remained, deep in conversation still with the hapless committee chair who seemed to be waiting only for enough of a pause to make her apologies before scurrying off herself. Irina suddenly remembered that she had something in their office that related to the proposed project, and she dragged the woman behind her like a small boat caught in the wake of an ocean liner as she went to retrieve it.

Natasha and Carter were, for the moment at least, surrounded by one of those tiny pockets of privacy that opens up in large gatherings sometimes. The Soldier leaned heavily on the cane as he came to stand near Natasha and Carter.

"Mrs. Margaret Rogers, this is my husband, Sokolov Yakov Morozovitch. Yasha, Peggy."

He extended his right hand to take hers. "A pleasure."

Carter didn't move, couldn't seem to stop staring at him. There was something hungry in her expression, and unless Natasha was seeing things, the vaguest hint of tears rising in her eyes. "My God," she murmured. "I thought it had to be a trick of the light but it isn't… Sargent…Sargent Barnes?" Her voice dropped to a pained whisper, "James? Can that be…Is that really you?"

* * *

 **Dun-dun-DUN! Cliffhanger! (Don't throw things. Vent that frustration in a review...)**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Sorry to leave you in the lurch, folks. I had half a chapter done and decided I hated it completely. I started again, and I hated that, too. Then my work life picked up again, so the gap between got longer than I wanted it to be. Thanks so much to jasminenewton4, Lady Krystalyn, Mon-Kishu, and Darth Claire for such great reviews. Each one was a drop of joy in my inbox. On with the show.

* * *

 _Who can hope to be safe? who sufficiently cautious?_

 _Guard himself as he may, every moment's an ambush._

 _~Horace_

 _[O]ut of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety._

 _~William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part II._

* * *

I.

The entire grouping froze like some kind of marble tableau at that name. Natasha's eyes swept from Margaret Carter's face to the Soldier's, and what she saw there told her that the Fedkins' party-filled living room was about to become a profoundly unsafe and unfestive place.

The Soldier's eyes were huge in a face gone totally bone-white pale. That slight tremor she'd seen before when he'd heard the name Yasha was back, more pronounced than ever as he slowly retracted his extended hand, taking a graceless half-step backwards. His breathing was hard, fast, and her mind flew to that night on top of the apartment building when the trigger of a familiar name had flung him far away and left him dangerous. She heard a twisting, splintering sound as the shrouded titanium hand tightened around the handle of the cane and crushed it. The destroyed materials cut through the fake flesh glove that shrouded his metal hand, and Natasha saw a glimmer of silver when he shifted. Carter's eyes darted to the damaged cane, and Natasha saw the woman's eyes widen as her hand slid toward what had to be a concealed weapon.

Natasha hastily grabbed her arm before she could complete the gesture. When Carter tried to pull away, Natasha increased the pressure and nodded toward the Soldier who was still frozen staring down at them.

"Believe me when I tell you _that_ would be very, very foolish just now, Agent." Natasha made sure to keep her tone low and gentle, but her grip never wavered.

Carter's eyes darted to Natasha' face, and whatever she saw there made her nod and slowly place her hands in her lap.

Natasha didn't have more time to waste on her. She knew there were moments only before the initial shock wore off and whatever form the Soldier's reaction would take began. She rose and slipped her arm around his waist, watchful for any signs of the violence experience taught her was probably coming, but he simply leaned against her as he continued to stare at Carter. The SHIELD agent rose also as if she were going to help Natasha support him, but Natasha's glare stopped the other woman cold.

"Whatever you think this is, this is _not the right place for it_ , do you understand me?" Natasha hissed, low, cold, as she felt the Soldier's arm begin to tighten around her, heard him make a soft sound of distress. She turned toward the door and started moving them in that direction.

Carter glanced across the room, catching the recently reappeared Stark's eye significantly. Stark was almost as shocked-looking as the Soldier, and he immediately began what looked like goodbyes to Fedkin who was standing beside him. He already had his and Peggy's coats over his arm. Carter focused again on Natasha. They were almost to the door.

"Where shall we go then? You can't possibly imagine I'm going to let the two of you out of my sight."

Natasha fought the urge to punch the other woman as the Soldier shifted hard against her, trying to loosen her hold on him.

 _Shit._

"Yasha… Just be good for me a minute more," she whispered.

 _Or I'll have to try to stop you. And then everybody in this room will probably wind up dead, us probably included._

He made another low, inarticulate noise, more felt than heard, and shifted again.

She glared at Carter. "I have to get him out of here."

Carter opened the door. "This building has a large basement. Would that do?"

Stark was with them now, staring at the Soldier still with that sense of dread and wonder painted on his face. Irina had been cutting across the room toward them, but Fedkin grabbed her arm, seemed to be filling her in on something. She looked at the little grouping at her front door with concern, but not, Natasha noticed, fear.

 _Not as if she knew the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow had been her party guests tonight. I wonder what Stark told them? I wonder what they even know._

She hated the idea of a basement, the idea of being trapped in a concrete kill box in enemy territory, but there was no way she could get him back to the hotel or to the warehouse. Those places were too far away. His shaking was increasing, and she heard the soft slithering of those titanium plates beneath the layers of his clothing and disguise, a sure sign their grace period was almost over.

"Lead on. But be fast. He won't stay like this much longer."

II.

The basement was not empty. Mismatched pieces of furniture were scattered here and there, and a set of shelves with cardboard boxes on them lined one wall. In the corner, the massive boiler pinged and growled to itself as it worked to send steam heat into the upper floors. Natasha managed to get the Soldier down the stairs, moved him toward a large, heavy, high-backed wooden chair, but when she tried to maneuver him onto it, whatever stasis he'd been in broke.

"NO! Not that again," he yelled, shoving her several steps away. "M'not goin in that damn chair!" He dropped into a crouch she knew all too well, and from nowhere, one of his small pistols was suddenly in his hand and trained on her.

 _Great. Brooklyn is back._

Natasha stopped completely, hands spread wide to show she meant him no harm even as she was scanning the room for something heavy enough to bash him into unconsciousness long enough for them to escape if the need arose.

Carter and Stark hovered uncertainly at the bottom of the stairs. Carter's hand was under her coat behind her, and she'd shifted so that Stark was behind her, partially shielded by her body. Natasha prayed the woman had the sense and training not to actually pull the gun she must be reaching for.

Natasha murmured, "None of us wants to hurt you. Remember who I am?"

"You're fuckin' dead if you come this way again is who you are. _Stay back_." He took a slow cross-over step to the side, edging toward the far wall which had dusty ventilation windows along its upper reaches. They looked a little small for an escape route, but she knew all too well that he'd be able to punch through with his titanium fist and widen the opening until he could get through and that it would take him only the smallest amount of time to do so.

 _He's going to run,_ Natasha thought desperately. _And if he does in this condition, how will I find him? How can I stop him?_

"Yasha," she said softly, "don't..."

 _Don't leave me again._

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, shook his head slightly, continued to edge toward the escape route he'd chosen. Natasha prepared herself for the fight she knew was going to be necessary to stop him. A fleeting part of her wondered which one of them would walk away from it. He watched her as she stepped toward him, and the barrel of the gun centered on her torso.

 _All those little Widows-to-Be are going to miss the answer to their impossible question. None of them will ever know whether I'm actually faster than the Soldier's shot or not…_

Natasha plunged forward into a roll, and she heard the gun crack twice, felt a fiery claw rip down her side, ignored it and came up to grapple with him for the gun. He bared his teeth at her, reached out and caught her throat with that titanium grip, and began to squeeze as he slowly and inexorably pulled the gun into firing position against her two-handed resistance. She clawed at his wrist, and the fake skin shroud ripped to reveal more of the metal beneath.

"Sargent Barnes!" Carter's voice cut through the room, and the Solider jerked. "That's enough! Lay down your weapon. This exercise is over."

For a long moment, the Soldier didn't move at all, kept the pistol solidly aimed, blue-grey eyes panicked, pupils blown with fear. Then the shaking took him again, so hard that she could hear his teeth chattering, and he dropped the weapon and slowly crumpled, pulling her down with him as he went. His eyes flicked up, panicked, across the three of them, fixed on her face.

"N-n-natasha?" he managed. Something in his voice was utterly lost.

"Right here."

She ignored the pain in her side and embraced him, holding him hard as if she could somehow put everything back together again through sheer willpower. His grip was the desperate hold of a man being pulled into the tempest and clinging to any point of safety available. For long moments, she whispered nonsense in Russian and smoothed her hands gently over his back.

Then his eyes cut to Carter where she and Stark still remained frozen near the stairs. She held her breath, waiting, planning, trying to figure out whether retreat or attack was the next best strategy for continued living.

"Peggy?" he said, and his voice was uncertain, breaking as though it hadn't been used in ages, its cadences that other voice of his, that English voice.

Carter was suddenly beside them. "Yes, James. It's me."

He sighed, and although the shaking didn't stop, something told Natasha the most immediately dangerous part of the episode was past. He buried his face for just a moment in her hair.

"Peggy," he said again. "Thank God. Is…is Steve with you, too? He came for me last time. Where's Steve?"

Natasha saw the other woman's unguarded reaction. Carter looked as though she'd been the one to be shot. Just a second too slowly, she put on a smile, but Natasha saw the sheen of tears she was refusing to shed.

"I'm sorry, James, but Steve isn't part of the rescue team this time. He…was assigned elsewhere."

In his distress, the Soldier didn't seem to notice the poor quality of Carter's lie, but Natasha did. She wondered who Steve was, why he was the first person the Solider would ask about and why the mention of him was able to make the trained and decorated SHIELD officer cry.

 _No time for that drama just now._

"Punk." The Soldier sat back slightly, slumped against the wall and looked up at Natasha. "He was supposed ta come get me, you know?" His tone was far away, musing. "I waited and waited, but he didn't come… Boy, are we gonna have words about _that…_ He didn't come, and they…they…"

She saw the fear creeping back in as his breathing began to pick up again. His eyes turned to hers, too wide, lost in whatever nightmare past had been resurrected by Carter's naming of him.

"It's okay, Yasha," she murmured. "I've got you, remember? It's okay…"

From outside the building, there was the sound of car doors slamming and people talking loudly at street level. Something about the tone reminded Natasha that she and the Soldier were supposed to have been bringing their mission to a conclusion that night. She turned her head and looked at Carter.

"We're going to need to get out of here, and it's going to need to happen right now."

Carter glanced back at Stark and some moment of communication passed between them. He turned and headed back upstairs as Carter faced Natasha and the Soldier again.

"We know of a safe place if you're willing to trust me," Carter said. "Stark is going to get the car and pull it around to the back. We can help the two of you get to safety."

Natasha eyed Carter. "And why would you do this?"

Carter's hand slipped up to the locket she wore briefly, the faintest brush of her fingertips across it and away.

"Because…because I owe a debt to someone who would expect me to."

Natasha gestured to the Soldier's silver hand, the small gun on the floor, taking in their entire situation with the sweep of her hand.

"Even in light of all this?"

Carter's lips twitched gently, but her eyes were profoundly sad. "Most especially in light of all this."

Natasha weighed the options for just a moment more and then nodded. She could use Carter to get them out, and then she'd figure something out, somehow. "Okay. Explanations later. Right now, let's get out of here."

III.

They managed to get the Soldier on his feet, up the stairs, and out the back door without seeing anyone else. He seemed to be floating in and out of awareness of them, muttering softly, switching from language to language. She heard that name again, "Steve," more than once, and her own. The trip was not a long one in regards to distance, but it seemed to take a thousand years to maneuver him up the stairs and into the back of the vehicle.

The minute they were all in the car, Stark was pulling away, the heavy sedan he'd brought moving sedately away from the Fedkins' apartment house and toward the beach. The Soldier was leaning heavily against her, groggily staring out the windows. He had her hand in his, and periodically, she'd feel one of those tremors run through him, and he'd shift uneasily. Natasha would squeeze his hand gently, murmur, "Got you. It's okay," and he would subside again, leaving her to attempt tracking their general progress and direction as the car wove through the streets.

She didn't like any aspect of the situation. Enemy agents, the very ones she'd been tasked with capturing, were transporting them at speed toward the waterfront. The Winter Soldier, _her Yasha_ , the man who had trained her, the partner who had loved her, was suddenly now someone else, this _James Barnes_ who knew _Peggy_ and asked for _Steve._ How could she possibly rely on him when she no longer even knew who in the hell he was?

Part of her coldly contemplated attacking Stark and Carter now when they'd least be expecting it. Even if the car were to wreck in the process, they weren't moving fast enough for it to likely be fatal. She could still drag the Soldier out and…

 _And what, Natasha? To where? To Petrov? You know what that would mean in his current state. Reset. How is that a solution?_

No. The only answers were with these two SHIELD agents. For better or for worse, her path lay with them. The Soldier murmured her name again, and she realized that it because she'd squeezed his hand seeking comfort instead of the other way around.

IV.

Stark stopped the car near a long pier to which a large cabin cruiser was moored and got out. He walked casually toward the waiting boat, but tension was in the line of his back and shoulders. Natasha scanned the area, but there was nobody she could see anywhere. Carter turned and considered them.

"Can you get him to the boat?"

Natasha looked at the agent steadily. "Almost certainly."

When she didn't move, the corners of Carter's lips curled ever so slightly. "Are you _going_ to get him to the boat?"

Natasha's grin was a wintery match for Carter's own. "Almost certainly not."

"You don't trust us."

"I wouldn't say that," said Natasha, brushing her hair gently, demurely aside with the tip of her finger before resting her hand on the Soldier's chest right over the concealed handle of one of his blades. "Stark doesn't worry me at all."

She had already closed her fingers around the handle for the quick grab of the blade and seen Carter's eyes widen in the beginnings of understanding when the Soldier's silver hand closed over her own and immobilized it. Startled, she turned her head to look at him. The eyes that met hers were clear and lucid.

Carter had drawn her weapon and had it trained at her in a rock-steady grip despite the awkward angle at which she was sitting. Natasha ignored it as she stared into the Soldier's eyes, searching for… _something…_

She would have pulled her hand free, but he refused to allow it. "No, little spider," he whispered gently in Russian. After long moments, she looked away from him and gazed instead helplessly out the breath-fogged car window. He softened his grasp, shifted his hand, and threaded those cold, deadly fingers through her own.

Natasha's heart was pounding. Despite her brave words earlier about running away, about using Stark and Carter to get away from Petrov and the Red Room and all the rest of it, she felt an almost irresistible desire to break away from the Soldier's grasp and run back to the dubious safety of what was at least _known…._

His hand tenderly squeezed, and when she looked up, she saw complete understanding in his expression. Something about that smoothed away the leading edges of the panic that had arisen, and she took a quiet breath to steady herself. It was her turn to hold tightly to him as an anchor as she heard him speak.

"Agent Carter… Peggy… We will both go with you. We need your help." He turned to look at Carter for the first time in long moments, completely unfazed by the gun still trained on them both.

Carter glanced from Natasha to the Soldier and back, considering. She seemed to reach some kind of decision as she set the safety on the pistol and slid it back into whatever holster it had come from beneath her jacket.

"Of course, James. And of course you shall have it. Let's go, shall we? There are so very many things we need to talk about…."

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 **Feedback would be much appreciated. I feel like all the seams are showing on this one.**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I know it's been a long time. I apologize. The truth is, most of the time my job just makes me too tired to be creative. I've got a bit of a vacation just now, though, and I want very much to continue this story. I haven't forgotten you, my lovely readers. I hope the same is true in reverse. On with the show.**

* * *

 _You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment unless you trust enough. ~Frank Crane_

 _Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own, instead of someone else's. ~Billy Wilder_

* * *

I.

Since the Soldier had regained his lucidity, they'd gotten to the boat with no trouble, pulled gracefully away from the pier with Stark at the controls, and glided sedately past the harbor markers. Once they were out on the open water, Stark had flipped a switch and the entire boat had gone dark except for a pale green illumination coming from the windscreen in front of them. As she'd looked at it, Natasha realized the screen was not the simple clear glass she had imagined. Somehow, it was showing crisp outlines of everything in front of them as if the shoreline and other obstacles had been sketched with a bright green pen.

Stark flipped another switch, and with the low humming of powerful machinery, it seemed that the vessel hunkered down in the water.

She'd glanced at the Solider, but he'd only raised an eyebrow leaving her to wonder what he thought of the technology on display.

Stark had reached toward the throttle but paused with his hand on the lever and looked over his shoulder at them.

"You'll want to have a seat over there for this bit, folks."

Natasha cut her eyes to Carter only to see the other woman already moving toward one of the seats and beginning to buckle a harness-style safety belt around herself. Natasha moved to do the same. The Soldier followed more slowly, eyeing the restraining belts thoughtfully before settling into the cushioned chair. She didn't miss that he simply wrapped the titanium grip of his left hand around a portion of the interior support of the ship instead of using the confining straps. Carter didn't miss it, either, judging from the look on her face, but neither woman commented on it.

Stark pulled back on the throttle, and without the slightest shimmy, the little vessel was hurtling through the dark night like a bullet shot from the Soldier's rifle. The force of their rapid acceleration forced them back against the high-backed chairs firmly. The green lines on the windscreen flowed and shifted as Stark expertly guided the ship. Natasha glanced back to the windows that looked out behind them expecting to see the frothing plumes of a huge wake. Instead, the water barely rippled.

Natasha's fascination with Stark's boat was interrupted by Margaret Carter's polite clearing of the throat. When she turned to look at the woman again, Carter spoke.

"Now that we have some time, we should talk."

Every single thing inside Natasha, every single moment of her training was rebelling against this, telling her to look for an opening to disarm and disable Carter, to find leverage to use on Stark to keep his magic ship moving until it could get them to somewhere…somewhere safe. Natasha readied herself for response, shifting ever so slightly as she glanced at the Soldier. He had not moved at all, continued to sit slightly sprawled in the seat, seemingly unconcerned about ridiculous speed, impossible technology, or the American agent.

"What do you need to know?" he asked calmly.

"Let's start with how you're sitting here in front of me talking when Steve saw you…when it was reported that you fell off a moving train on the edge of a cliff in 1944."

Natasha watched the Soldier carefully, expecting him to begin to react again as he had throughout their time together when any facet of his obscured past was revealed. He was different now, though, had been since the last attack in the Fedkins' basement, perfectly lucid and steady.

"The answer for that is one word long. Zola."

Which made no sense to Natasha at all. However, judging by the sudden paleness and recognition on Margaret Carter's face, it clicked together for her just fine.

"Zola," she repeated, sadness and bitterness coloring her tone. "He used the serum on you?"

"His personal recipe, anyway. I wasn't his only guinea pig, but I was the only one who survived…."

"And that?" She gestured to the gleaming silver hand he was using to keep himself steady as the ship flew through the water.

He let go of the support, slipped off his jacket, and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. He looked blankly for a moment at the tattered remains of the synthetic flesh glove that had disguised the titanium arm when he had been Yakov Sokolov, and then he slowly pulled away what was left to reveal the entire limb.

"This? This is courtesy of the Russians who found me three days after I fell from the train washed up on the banks of the river, delirious, critically injured, and inexplicably alive and the Hydra doctors they dragged me to who recognized Zola's delicate handiwork and…. saw an opportunity, I guess."

"Jesus, Barnes…."

A smile which did not touch his eyes twisted his lips briefly. He raised the titanium arm slightly, flexed his fingers and made the plates shift and slither. Natasha saw Stark turn his head to stare at the Soldier's arm in an engineer's hopeless fascination despite its deadly purpose.

 _Or perhaps even because of it._

"No, ma'am," the Soldier said softly, still looking at his arm with that same bitter grin as he moved it so the servos inside whirred quietly again. "There were a lotta guys involved in the making of _this_ , the remaking of _me_ , but I'm pretty sure _he_ wasn't involved at all…."

II.

As the ship had sliced through the dark waters, Carter had relentlessly questioned the Soldier. Natasha listened, absorbing everything she could, but in many ways it was like listening to half a conversation. They seemed to have some kind of shorthand code, shared memories and concepts they kept referencing that she couldn't follow.

 _And this Steve. Who the hell is he? Why does Yasha keep asking about him? Why does Carter always look like she's going to cry before she deflects?_

They'd circled back to Steve at least six times during the conversation, but each time, Carter had said as little as possible as vaguely as she was able before deftly turning the conversation into other paths, asking about their training, their current mission, who controlled them and how. Natasha let Yasha do all the talking unless Carter specifically addressed her. He was telling Carter the truth, or at least most of it.

 _More of it than I expected, I think. But…he knows these people. Let him decide how much is safe to reveal, what has to be kept hidden. He knows what they do and don't want to hear. I trust him to keep us alive._

So she settled back to do what any good spy would do. She watched. She listened. She evaluated points of potential weakness. She began to formulate a plan that would serve when things inevitably went to hell.

III.

They'd arrived in Istanbul and been met at the pier by a very large group of military men ill-concealed in civilian clothing. No amount of casual wear was ever going to be able to hide the quiet stillness they held themselves with or the faint but discernable bulges of weapons under their long coats. Carter had spoken with a silver-haired man who came forward to greet them, and they'd been swept away to two heavy sedans waiting with engines idling, she and the Soldier into one and Stark and Carter into the other.

The cars had wound around the dark streets, and she'd gotten only the vaguest hint of the city's flavor, a major landmark here or there telling her roughly where they were. The buildings thinned out somewhat as they left the city center. Neither she nor the Soldier spoke. He stared straight forward, watching the car in front of them intently as if he expected it to disappear, and she kept her gaze out the window. She could feel the tension in him, and without moving otherwise, she slid her hand across the seat and hooked just the tip of her little finger over his. She could see him in reflection in the window, and she knew he didn't turn his head, but she felt the cool silver metal of his finger slip against hers minutely. It was enough.

The soldiers in the front did not acknowledge them at all until the car ahead of them finally slowed to pass through a guarded metal gate, pulled into a private drive and circled back to a large white stone house set back off the road. The house had the grandeur and architecture of an old palace for some minor official from the days of the Empire. A sloping green terrace rolled down to the dark Bosphorous, silver flickers of light from the house and various markers along a crushed stone path leading to the water highlighting the waves here and there. One of the soldiers turned to them after the car stopped.

"Sir, Ma'am. If you'll come with us…"

Natasha felt her uneasiness rising. Had they brought them to a place this remote to confine them here? It was exactly the sort of place she'd have chosen to restrain and interrogate enemy agents. She hadn't missed the slight movement down near the water which indicated a patrol of some kind.

She looked up at the Soldier, and he turned his head to look at her for a moment.

"Remember. To the end of the line," he whispered softly in Russian.

Then they were walking up the wide pale stone stairs and into the huge, brightly lit entrance where Carter was waiting on them with the silver-haired man and several soldiers.

"And now, this is the awkward bit. I'm going to have to ask you to give us any weapons you might be carrying," Carter said with false brightness. "You can put them right here on this table."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. Neither she nor the Soldier made a move to comply.

"It's just as a show of good faith. Really. We mean you no harm."

Mentally, Natasha rolled her eyes.

 _Sure it is. They don't even use that line in the movies anymore, do they? It's that predictable and trite._

The Soldier slowly slipped his arm beneath the suit jacket he'd slipped back on when the boat had docked. Their disastrous night at the Fedkins' party seemed like lifetimes ago now. Natasha saw several of the soldiers drawing their sidearms as he moved and she shifted subtly, preparing herself to evade and attack. Carter halted them with a raised hand.

The Soldier continued as though he hadn't seen them or as if they were trivialities not to be considered, and in his hand was one of his pistols. Natasha watched as he ejected the magazine and the round in the chamber and held the two pieces of the weapon out. After a moment, the young soldier behind the table hesitantly leaned forward and took them from him. She didn't miss the fact that his hands were shaking as he did.

 _It would be funny…except it isn't. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that they seem to know enough about us to be properly afraid?_

All eyes shifted toward her. Russian obscenities floated through her mind.

"This is going to take a little bit of time, you understand?" she said to Carter. The other woman nodded.

With a sigh, she reached for her own concealed pistol mollified only slightly by the fact that the drawn weapons immediately shifted to target her. She didn't bother to break down the weapon as the Soldier had done. Instead she just pushed it across the surface of the table slightly and began reaching for one of her concealed blades. She saw the Soldier doing the same from the corner of her eye, and for a few minutes, the two of them were occupied in removing the various tools of their trade from their places of concealment.

She didn't miss the way the soldiers' gazes trailed appreciatively up her bare leg when put her foot on the seat of a small chair and raised her skirt high enough to get her spare pistol out of its thigh holster. As she added it to the large pile of weapons in front of her, she leaned down a little, bracing her hands on the tabletop, conscious of the fact that her modest button-down blouse would allow a direct line of sight to something less than modest in that position, and winked at the soldier who was supposed to be cataloguing the articles. He'd frozen altogether in contemplation of the enticing curves suddenly before him, and when she cleared her throat and gave him one of her luxurious and dangerous smiles, he started slightly and blushed bright red.

"Fish in barrels, little widow, are not worthy targets. Have some pity," the Soldier murmured in Russian. His lips turned up slightly as he placed a final blade into his own pile of deadly toys. She gave him a feline smirk of her own before turning away.

 _Couldn't resist it. Well, didn't much try..._

"All done?" asked Carter.

Natasha shrugged, felt the comforting weight of the things she hadn't removed press against her at the gesture. "Sure." _Why not? As close as I'm coming to it anytime soon, anyway, until we get to the strip search portion of the evening…._

"If you will come with me, then, Ms. Romanova," Carter said to Natasha.

"And where will…James…be?"

The silver-haired man stepped forward. "With me. We need to ask both of you some questions separately, and there is quite a lot of paperwork we need to get started so we can get both of you to a place of greater safety. You understand it will all go much faster if we divide and conquer."

She glanced at the Soldier.

 _Yes or no, Yasha? How far do you really trust them?_

He gazed down at her, and she heard the slight whirring of the plates shifting on his titanium arm, knew by the slightly startled expressions on the faces of the soldiers nearby that they had, too, and weren't sure what it was as he gently brought the gleaming silver hand up to rest on her shoulder where they could all see it, saying, "Of course. We understand how things like this work." She could feel the faint tremor in him, barely detectable even to her but present. She knew nobody else in the room, no one who didn't know him as she did, would know it at all.

To her, he said, "I'll see you soon." His gaze was fierce, and she read the promise in it, could hear the threat in it.

"Yes," she replied, and she knew he could hear the promise of her own.

 _Even if I have to go through every one of you in this room. Even if I have to punch my way out of whatever space you have prepared for me. Even if it is the last thing I do. Soon._

IV.

When Carter led her down one of the hallways that branched away from the huge entrance, Natasha felt all the protocols of her training sliding smoothly together to prepare her for whatever attack was coming next. They entered a high-ceilinged wood-paneled room. One whole wall was windows. In the daylight, it would have had a beautiful view extending down to the water, but all Natasha could think about was how totally strategically vulnerable this place was.

Two soldiers came in with Natasha and Carter. Natasha saw another pair taking their post just outside as the door swung closed. Carter turned and gave Natasha a tight-lipped smile. Natasha returned it with her own. Carter gestured to an ornately brocaded sofa, and Natasha folded herself onto it with every ounce of ballet dancer's grace she'd had beaten into her as a child. Carter sat on the matching piece across from her, and the two women studied each other a long moment.

"Would you like some tea?" Carter finally inquired.

Natasha smiled slightly. "Oh, by all means. Let's do honor all the outer trappings of civility."

Carter was already in motion, reaching for a lovely porcelain service that rested on the low table between them. She didn't pause at Natasha's comment as she moved through the steps of preparation.

"Exactly. In a business that is frequently as…incivil…as ours is, I find the outer trappings are ever more important to me."

Carter poured out a fragrant stream of hot liquid into one of the delicate cups and presented it to Natasha. Natasha took it, held it with a graceful ease that would not have looked out of place in a royal palace, sipped slightly after watching Carter taste hers first.

"And is this one of those moments when incivility is to be the order of the day?" Her tone was conversational, almost amused. Inside, though, her mind was up to its usual business.

 _Porcelain shatters and makes razor-sharp shards. The tea is still hot enough to temporarily blind her if I throw it into her face. If I can get hold of the heavy kettle over there, that would be better still. The sugar tongs will bend easily, but if I hold them firmly and aim for a soft spot…._

Carter shook her head. "No. Not at all. We wish to help you, but we need to know more about you, more about what has happened to James."

Natasha made a non-committal noise as she idly tilted her cup, watched the lemon slice float gently on the surface.

 _The table is sturdily built, but I could smash it, use one of the legs as a club. Those thick twisted tiebacks for the drapes would make a garrote if I could get to them quickly enough. She's said to be quite the marksman, and I'm sure *she* didn't have leave all *her* weapons at the front door…._

"Ms. Romanova, please," said Carter softly. "I know it must be hard to believe me…"

Natasha looked up from the lazy orbit of the lemon in the cup. _You have no idea. You have no idea how much I want to believe you or how afraid I am even to try…._

Carter put down her cup. "….I know how I would feel in your place, but if you can just tell us what we need to know so we can begin this process…"

 _Then we won't have to hurt you. Then I can make your wildest fantasies come true. Then you will be absolutely safe. Then we won't do anything to your wife. Your husband. Your children. Then you will never see me again. Then you and I never have to be apart again. Then all will be forgiven. Is there any variation of this lie I haven't told, haven't used on someone else?_

Natasha put her own cup down and brought her eyes to Carter's.

"Here's the thing. I'm here because he trusts you. Not one other reason. Personally, I don't know if I can trust you, and I learned long, long ago that giving trust easily is as foolish and potentially deadly as walking blindfolded through a firefight." _Moreso, actually. You've a better chance of surviving the firefight if you pay attention… "_ Our records show you've been at this game a long time, so you know that I know how little words are worth. Any trust that grows here will come from what you do."

Carter shifted, thought a moment, and then spoke.

"Has any action we have taken so far given you reason to doubt what I am telling you?"

Natasha tilted her head slightly, studying the SHIELD agent.

"Let's say some of your actions could be read in a variety of ways."

"Such as?"

Natasha gestured at the room around them. "This. This place. Its seclusion. All these soldiers. Stripping us of our weapons. Putting us in separate rooms. It is either a secure place for us to hide or a secure place for us to be kept."

Carter thought about it and nodded. "I can see how you could read it both ways. I can assure you this isn't a prison for you, though."

Natasha shook her head slightly and smiled, picking up her tea.

"Of course not."

 _The frames of those windows would not withstand my slamming through them even if the glass itself is bulletproof. I would have to be in motion immediately, though, or those outside units would certainly come running to see what the problem was. And then where? To the water? Not without Yasha…_

Carter sipped, made a face, used the delicate tongs to add another lump of sugar to the tea. "As to the separation from Sargent Barnes, if you've been in this business, as you called it, as long as I think you have, then you understand why that happened, too. Frankly, he was once ours. You never were. Instead, you are actually a part of the same machine that took him and did these horrible things to him."

 _Finally. The gloves are coming off. There is truth in that…_

Natasha looked steadily at the other woman. "That is very true. We are products of the same machine."

"And when you say you have trouble trusting us, quite honestly, we are having much the same problem where you are concerned. If what Sargent Barnes has related is accurate, it would seem that the two of you have been wreaking havoc on our interests and personnel for quite some time, now."

Natasha lifted her tea, sipped again. "Just so."

For a moment, the two women just stared at each other. Finally, Carter sighed. "It all comes down to this. James Barnes was one of the most loyal men I have ever known. He was always able to see the good in someone, even if the rest of the world wasn't ready to acknowledge it in that person yet. His heart was true. If he stood up for someone, if he decided they were worth protecting, then that judgment was sterling."

The agent stood and paced over to the windows, looked out into the darkness beyond. Natasha made no move to follow. For a time, Carter seemed to be lost in some of that mysterious past that linked her to the Soldier. Then she turned back to face Natasha.

"In short, then, without knowing the extent of what has been done to him by Hydra, I am choosing to believe that innate ability to judge true is still good. Since he so clearly believes in you, Ms. Romanova, I am going against several layers of command and many years of my own experience to do so, as well. Do you understand?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes. Absolutely. That is the truest thing I have heard from you yet."

"And are you willing to make the same choice? To trust him even if you cannot yet trust me, trust us?"

Natasha looked down again at the lemon slice in her cup, swirling the dark fragrant tea to create a small vortex which tugged the lemon and spun it.

 _One sympathizes._

"As you say, Yasha's judgment has always been true. Therefore, because he is willing, I will make myself willing, too."

Carter came back to the sofa and sat down. "Good. We understand one another then."

Natasha felt a tiny smile curve the corners of her lips. "Oh, absolutely."

"In that case, would you be willing to answer some questions? You would be free to decline anything you felt uncomfortable with."

 _Yasha trusts them. Yasha *knows* them._

Natasha shrugged. "Try me, and we'll see how it goes."

V.

The agent had asked her general questions about her background and training. Natasha had answered most of it truthfully. Some of it, questions about where she came from, where she was born, she did not answer because she could not. She had no idea where she had come from, no memory beyond the Red Room except for that dream of a red-haired woman who had gazed down at her with such love. The questioning had gone on for several hours in this vein before Carter finally put down the pen she'd been taking notes with and stretched.

"I think that is enough for one night."

Natasha had remained still, studying the woman for clues as to what was coming next.

"Aren't you tired? It's been a rather busy day by anyone's standards. Party and personal revelation and dramatic escape?"

Part of Natasha was amused that the agent seemed to think she would find such a day extreme. Compared to the grueling training she'd undergone to become a Black Widow and the dangerous missions she'd been on ever since, the only part of this day that had seemed wildly incongruous was this little chat over tea. She'd been awake and active for more than four days on one mission, her body pulling power beyond normal endurance from the serum. She knew for certain the Solider had done longer stretches lying in wait for the perfect shot.

 _It's just another day at the office, Agent._

Carter rose and Natasha stood with her.

"I'll be happy to show you to your quarters if you'll follow me."

Natasha nodded, and they left the room, the two soldiers from outside the door falling in behind her. She refused to acknowledge them, focusing instead on memorizing the path that Carter was taking through the huge old house, noting other possible exits and places to hide herself, items that might be of use.

They climbed a set of stairs to a large seating area with several rooms branching off it. Carter walked to one of the doors and opened it. Beyond was a large, airy room. There was a balcony, currently closed off from the main space by several French doors. By day, this room would have the same expansive view the downstairs parlor would have, and she realized that she must be just above it.

"Does it meet with your approval?"

 _The balcony is both a comfort and a worry. I can get out if I need to, but how can I defend a place with so much glass?_

"It's quite lovely. Thank you."

"We've made an effort to stock in some things we thought you might need, clothing, toiletries, and whatnot. You'll find all those sorts of things in their logical places."

Carter nodded at a heavy door in the far wall.

"Sargent Barnes's room will be right through there. We thought it might make the two of you feel more secure if your quarters were close to each other."

 _Read: We know you're lovers, but if you don't want to confirm that, we're giving you a means of semi-plausible deniability._

"I don't know if he has finished up with his interview, but I'm sure he will be up soon." Carter circled back to the door. "If you need anything, just let the guard outside know, and he'll see to it you get it."

 _Read: We've got our eye on you. Don't go roaming._

Natasha smiled her best fake smile. "Got it. Thanks."

VI.

She had spent some time walking around the space, exploring it, learning it as she'd been taught, and still his room was silent. There was nothing to do now but wait.

She opened a drawer, took out a clean set of loose cotton trousers and shirt, and turned toward the ridiculously large bathroom that glowed softly beyond an arching door.

 _Might as well take this time to wash away Anna._

She turned the taps in the shower and slipped off the plain clothing she'd worn as the young minister's wife, shoes and stockings, skirt and blouse, sensible undergarments, plain jewelry. She hesitated for just a moment when she touched the wedding band she'd worn as Anna before firmly tugging it off and adding it to the collection.

 _Because that's over now. Anna is gone. Yakov is gone. We're just Natalia and Yasha…James…now._

She bathed efficiently, mind too occupied with the unknown variables of her current situation to take pleasure in it. Stepping out, she dried off and dressed in the garments she'd selected before going into the bedroom. She paused to listen. There was no sound from the guards outside her door. There was no sound from Yasha's room, either.

Frustrated, she pulled on a robe she'd located in the closet, switched off the lights to her room, and walked to the glass French doors. Pulling them open, she moved out onto the balcony. She smirked slightly to see that the balcony ran past a door that undoubtedly led into the Soldier's rooms.

 _Ever more discreet, eh, Carter? I suddenly feel like I'm in a Victorian novel…._

The night was clear but chilly. She wrapped the robe tighter and ignored the temperature as she stared out into the night. She heard nothing but the sound of distant waves, the low hooting of the massive cargo ships as they sailed sedately toward the Black Sea, and an occasional crunching of gravel as the soldiers outside made their rounds. The place was beautiful, but even with the lights off so she wasn't an easy target, she felt too exposed for comfort out here. She was just about to turn and go back inside when strong arms slipped around her waist.

VII.

She'd heard nothing, sensed nothing. She froze for a millisecond as her mind and body processed. The unmistakable feel of his titanium arm around her was joined by the scent which was just his own, and she had already relaxed back against him even before she heard the soft growl of his voice against her ear.

"Okay?"

She nodded. _Now._

He turned her gently.

"Were they…was it..."

She smiled just a little, hearing the endings to the questions he wasn't quite finishing. She stepped closer so she could rest her head against him, enjoying the feeling of his arms tightening around her as she did so.

"I'm a big girl, Yasha. You don't have to worry about me."

She felt more than heard the breath of his laughter.

"Maybe I was worried about Carter. Did you two manage not to leave any permanent scars on each other?"

"I swear she was alive the last time I saw her. Anything else, you cannot hold me responsible for…"

This time, she heard the soft chuckle, and it warmed something in her, made some of the tension that had been slowly spiraling since Carter had named him so many hours ago begin to release. They stood that way for long moments before she pushed back enough to see his face in the dim gleam from the distant downstairs lights.

"And what about you? Any permanent scars?" She said it lightly, but her hands firmly gripped the lapels of the jacket he still wore.

"Hush, little spider. There was nothing unexpected to it. We all survived."

For a time, they just stood and held each other. Then she took his hand and led him back inside, pulling him to the big bed. The door to his room was open, and a dim light from some lamp burning there spilled a soft glow into her room that was more than enough illumination for their enhanced vision. She pulled at his jacket. He toed off his shoes. She slipped out of the robe, tossed it at a nearby chair, cared very little whether or not it actually got there. He was pulling back the covers, and she slid under them. He joined her moments later and pulled her tightly against his side.

Fatigue slipped up on her suddenly, and she fought it back. She had to know…

"Yasha," she whispered.

"Hmm?" he murmured.

"Can we trust them? Really trust them?"

His hand smoothed across her shoulders and back.

"I think….I think so."

"But how can you _know?_ The things Carter said to me today…I've said those things, too. Usually right before I pulled someone's entire life down around them."

He continued to hold her, caress her.

"Carter was never that way. None of them were. Don't get me wrong. She can be hard enough to make the tough decisions when needed, but here…here you don't have to assume that everyone you meet is trying to destroy you for personal advancement or because they enjoy it."

"Do you remember it all, then?"

His hand paused a moment before resuming the gentle motion. "No." He sighed. "No. Not…not everything. There are gaps. But what I do remember, I trust. She was always loyal, always willing to take the risk for something she felt to be right."

She waited a moment before asking the question that was most important to her. "Are we…" She paused. On one level, she couldn't believe the massive foolishness of the question she was about to ask. She certainly should know better than anyone anywhere that it was a useless query, that the answer she wanted was almost certainly a lie, but she found herself asking it anyway….

"Do you think we are safe here?" Her fingers curled into the fabric of the button-down shirt he still wore. She hated herself for the yearning she hadn't been able to keep from her voice.

He pulled her closer. "Natasha…. I don't know if people like us ever can be truly safe anywhere. I think we are as safe as they can make us right now. I think it's a first step to a more lasting kind of safety than you or I have known."

She thought about it.

"It's enough, then."

She kissed him softly and settled back against him. She was asleep in minutes.

He, however, lay awake for quite some time afterward.

* * *

 **Review, won't you?**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Lookit! Another chapter! It's like a Thanksgiving Week miracle! Enjoy, people.**

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 _Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real, and you're just a reflection of him? ~Calvin and Hobbes_

 _Be careful not to drown in a mirage. ~Terri Guillemets_

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I.

A chilly breeze blew across the wide stone patio, teasing a strand of Natasha's bright red hair across her cheek and lips. She absently brushed it away, refusing to acknowledge the drop in temperature that had happened when the last of the sun slid behind the hills of the horizon. She'd been here for quite some time now, leaning against the waist-high stone balustrade and watching the changing face of the Bosphorus, the deepening blue-green of the water as the day faded, the soft glow of the nighttime face of the ancient city of Istanbul revealing itself.

She liked this place, this still and ancient city with its veneer of the modern floating lightly over centuries of power and intrigue. She liked the wide clean avenues with their electric trams sliding briskly up and down. She liked the narrow cobbled side streets, the overhanging balconies of the old Ottoman houses keeping secrets and casting useful shadows.

It wasn't the first time she'd been here. Istanbul had always been a place where the destiny of the world turned on a regular basis, so almost inevitably, missions had brought her here, had her slipping in and out of those useful shadows. She'd never truly had a moment to appreciate the place for itself, though, never been able to stand and watch it unfurl itself slowly against the dark blue gloaming of the night.

Now, though, even though their situation kept them isolated from the main heart of the city, she had time to watch the water ferries glide slowly across to the Asian side of the city, see the distant strand of lights of the Galata Bridge, trace the lighted minarets of the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque in the distance. The final haunting call of the dueling muezzins of those two historic places began, and she forced herself to focus on that sound rather than the argument currently raging inside the room behind her.

II.

When they'd awakened after the long night of their escape, Natasha found that Carter had been preparing to put them on a plane and send them to a military base in England where SHIELD had connections. They'd gone so far as to set the leave time, and the Soldier and she had been waiting for the call to head to the transport when orders had come in that Carter could apparently neither countermand nor wiggle around without serious consequences.

The agent was furious.

That was only the beginning.

III.

The afternoon of the second day saw the heavy gates opening and a car spiral its way down the long drive to the house. Natasha and the Soldier watched from an upstairs window as a slender man in a uniform covered in medals unfolded himself from the back seat and made his way inside.

"Here's either the problem or the solution, then," she murmured. The Soldier made a little sound of agreement, slipping his arms from around her waist as the two of them turned away together. When one of the young soldiers came to fetch them a few minutes later, he was somewhat disconcerted to find the two of them standing just near the top of the stairs as if they had been waiting for him.

The man in the uniform was introduced by Agent Carter as Colonel Bradley Moore. His face was round and curiously boyish for someone with as much grey streaking through his hair as he had. As he shook hands with the two of them, he was polite, cordial even, but Natasha couldn't help but feel that the show of good humor didn't quite reach his eyes, somehow.

"I'm sorry as can be, folks, but you know how the Brits are. They like all those darn little old I's dotted and t's crossed," he smiled with false apology at Agent Carter.

 _Well, look at that. She can't kill with just a look. And he'd better be glad…._

"There's no need to worry about it, though. Despite what Agent Carter here might be telling you, I can't think of a better place for you two to be right now."

 _If she keeps grinding her teeth like that, she's going to do herself damage…. Let's see what his particular weaknesses are. Would he like a damsel in distress?_

"So you think we're really safe here, Colonel Moore?" Natasha had slowly drifted across the room until she was close enough to lay fingertips lightly on his sleeve, as if she were subconsciously asking him for reassurance or protection.

He looked down at her for a moment with eyes that were cold and unmoved before shifting ever so slightly away from her touch.

"Of course, little lady," he said with another of those hollow smiles. "We're going to make sure both of you are taken care of. Don't worry about a thing."

IV.

What should have been a short stop-over on their way much further away from the hand of the KGB had turned into a lengthy stay. Patterns were established. Carter spent her time fighting with Moore and anyone else she could get to answer a phone call. She presented him with a hundred reasons why they needed to get the Soldier and Natasha out of Istanbul, outlined several plans that could be used if England was unwilling, and even showed him updated intelligence that showed that the KGB had begun to reach out testing fingers to pull its missing assets back in. Moore would listen patiently, nod along, deliver platitudes, and basically do everything except pat Carter on the behind and send her back off to the kitchen where he so obviously acted like she belonged.

Natasha saw Carter out on the shooting range one morning after one of their confrontations, and the woman was simply obliterating a target. The chest had so many holes through it most of the center of the target was gone. The head had a similarly large portion missing. Natasha couldn't help but smile when she saw the crotch had also taken quite a lot of damage…

 _Not a kill shot, necessarily, but probably quite good for stress relief._

In the meantime, Stark drifted in and analyzed the Soldier's arm, took samples of their blood to test. Natasha and the Soldier answered endless questions, submitted to examinations, and psychological evaluations performed by the army of technicians and medics that had magically appeared after Moore's arrival.

And still, there was much time with nothing to fill it. On the third day, the Soldier and Natasha began to spar again, both for the exercise and to relive the tedium. Their session almost always drew a crowd of spectators no matter when they held it or where they moved it. Once the watchers arrived, they began to hold back the full range of their abilities, pull blows, move slower than they were capable of until to her it had the feeling of a ballet performance instead of a genuine fight.

 _And we never even talked about hiding what we're capable of. It's instinctive, I guess. We are both going to wind up rusty this way…._

On day four, Stark found a chess board tucked away in a cupboard somewhere and set it up. He then began to harass and cajole every person unwary enough to come near it into playing him. Natasha was unsurprised that he mowed through most of his opponents with an obscene ease. He'd tried to get her to play him, but she'd always demurred with a smile. When he pressed, she'd simply said, "I don't think your ego could handle it, Stark," and walked away.

On day six, Natasha came back from a session with the SHIELD doctors to find Stark and the Soldier at play. Unable to resist this unlikely scenario, she paused in the doorway to observe. Stark's hair stood up messily. He'd clearly tugged his tie looser at some point, and the long sleeves of his ever-present button-down were rolled sloppily up past his elbows.

"How long have they been at this?" Natasha murmured to one of the soldiers who were leaning against the wall watching.

"Longer than Mr. Stark would like, that's for sure," he whispered back. She didn't miss the satisfaction in the young man's tone. He was enjoying watching the brilliant man get some kind of comeuppance, it seemed.

She evaluated the progress of the game. Stark was playing black to the Soldier's white, and it seemed he'd lost quite a few pieces. Natasha noticed both black knights, most of the pawns, one of the bishops, and one of the rooks were lined up in neat rows according to height at the edge of the board near the Soldier. A few of the white pawns were haphazardly strewn on the other side, along with a single bishop turned over on its size.

It was Stark's turn. Running his fingers through his hair again, he reached for a piece. His hand hovered above it a moment, and he retracted it, glancing up at the Soldier. The Solider sat back in the wooden chair, hands still on the table. He didn't fiddle or fidget. His eyes were on the board, but he showed no particular concern in what he saw there. He simply waited for Stark to make his choice.

Finally, Stark touched a piece, his queen, and sent her forward to capture one of the Soldier's knights which had been in an unexpectedly vulnerable position. He grinned at the Soldier as he slipped the piece to the side of the board, cocky where moments before he'd been full of indecision and frustration.

 _And more the fool you, Stark. Don't you know if something looks too good to be true, it usually is?_

Natasha knew what was coming next. The Soldier allowed Stark to finish removing the knight from the board, allowed him to settle into his seat, and then with no further hesitation, he reached down and took the black queen with his own.

"Check. Mate in two."

"What? How? What the…" exploded Stark.

"In two."

Natasha strolled over to lean over the Soldier's shoulder. "Yes. Two. I agree."

The Soldier did not look up, but after a moment, he reached up and gently slipped his hand over hers.

Stark studied the board again before swearing loudly. The Soldier pushed back from the table.

"One more, Barnes. Give me another shot at it."

The Soldier shook his head and stood. "Another time, perhaps." He took Natasha's hand, and the two of them turned to the doors leading to the back terrace.

V.

Natasha dropped into Russian with him as they walked.

"How long had you two been playing?"

Again, there was a pause before he responded.

"We began when I finished my session with the psychologist. Perhaps an hour or so."

She laughed. "You let it go on that long?" She reached for his hand, twined their fingers lightly together, looking him over.

 _Something is wrong. What is it?_

He glanced down at her. "He is not without skill. Truly."

"I saw the carnage when I came in, and I know who trained you and how. _You_ trained _me._ You were toying with him. Didn't you give me some lecture about fish in barrels when we first got here?"

He smiled a little, and she felt some of the worry that had started building abate slightly. "Not the same at all."

"No? Just because he wasn't staring down your blouse doesn't mean you weren't playing with him."

He shrugged. "It relieved the boredom."

At her incredulous look, he clarified, "I was trying to see how long I could prolong it without being forced by his errors to end the game."

"So why did you end it when you did? And the way you did? You didn't have to forfeit the knight at all. Two extra moves would have let you keep them both."

Again, there was that pause, as if he were dredging the reply up from a deep well somewhere inside him.

"I was ready to be done with it, and that was more expedient. The queen is more versatile, more powerful. She always has more moves available and fewer restrictions. She could execute the endgame alone and do it faster if the knight were sacrificed."

There was heaviness and weariness in his tone. He was looking at her steadily as his fingers tightened around hers, and a cold chill shot up her spine.

"No, Yasha," she murmured, tugging at his grip to pull her hand free.

He refused to allow it.

"Listen to me…."

She pulled hard enough to get free, and turned to walk away from him to the railing at the edge of the terrace that looked over the water.

"I said NO."

He came up behind her, and after a moment, he wrapped his arms around her to rest his hands on the railing to either side of her body. She stood stiffly, staring out at the shifting blue and green before her.

His voice came to her in a soft murmur. Even someone standing right beside them would have been hard-pressed to eavesdrop.

"If it comes down to it, little _koroleva_ , if the circumstances determine that you _must_ , promise me that you will allow the sacrifice and finish the game alone."

She turned to face him, searching his features for some clue as to what was going on.

 _He is so different today, so still, so reserved. What has happened?_

"What's brought all this on? What aren't you telling me?"

He shook his head but said nothing.

"Then what do you suspect?"

He was silent a moment longer. Then he replied slowly, "Carter is unhappy. She knows as we do that we are still in the KGB's backyard. We were only ever to have been in Istanbul a night as an emergency measure since nobody knew we were coming before they came face-to-face with us at the Fedkins' party."

"What does _she_ suspect?"

"She doesn't say, and Moore is around all the time, so perhaps she can't. All she's being told is that preparations are taking time, something about securing the proper diplomatic approvals before taking us into England. And there is some chance that all of this is legitimate, just a pissing contest between bureaucracies."

"But if it isn't…"

He made no reply, staring out at the water.

She placed her finger over his lips when he would have spoken.

"No. Now you hear me. _Together until the end of the line._ That is what I want. That is what you _promised_ me. With two more moves, there would have been no need to sacrifice the knight, Yasha. Only two more moves."

She slipped her hand up to cup his cheek, and he turned his face into her palm and kissed it gently.

"Perhaps, _moya koroleva_. We'll have to play it out to see if there is time for them."

VI.

On the seventh day, they were finally given clearance for England. Everyone relaxed just a little as immediate preparations were made for their next-day departure.

Carter and Stark would be going with them. In fact, Stark himself would fly the plane. The two would get Natasha and the Soldier settled before returning to whatever duties SHIELD needed them for next. Carter was calmer than Natasha had seen her in days, a hint of a smile even appearing from time to time.

Natasha, however, had a growing sense of dread that she could not seem to shake. As every hour passed toward their boarding the plane, so, too, did the nameless spectre at her back.

She tried to talk to the Soldier about it when he returned from one of the endless sessions with the SHIELD staff, but Moore pulled him into another meeting, something he was calling an "exit interview," too fast for them to have any real conversation.

Night came, and with it a farewell meal. Carter and Stark were laughing and joking with the others at the table. Even Moore managed to be more personable and less condescending that usual. Natasha slid a festive veneer of her own over her growing concern as she watched the Soldier eat with his usual slow, mechanical precision and focus.

She gently reached out and touched his hand. "Yasha," she whispered. "Is everything okay?"

He looked at her with storm-blue eyes, and it seemed for a moment he would say something, but then he just closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm just tired, Natasha. Tired and ready for it to be done."

And he sounded like it. He sounded like a man on the way to a grave, not a man on the verge of greater freedom than either of them had known in ages. She frowned and would have pursued the matter, but suddenly Moore interrupted the moment by asking her a direct question.

VII.

At the end of the meal, a waiter brought around glasses of champagne.

"What's this?" asked Carter with a laugh.

Moore smiled. "Well, since tonight is a bit of a special occasion, I thought it was appropriate. One last hurrah, I suppose, before the two of you go off to what's next for you." He saluted Natasha and the Soldier with his glass. Natasha smiled back, but the Soldier's overwhelming stillness was all she could think about. He held his glass, but he did not lift it.

 _As soon as I can get him out of here, I will *make* him tell me what is going on._

She barely heard Moore finish his toast, tossed the wine down without paying it any attention.

 _Whatever it is, I am sure we can fix it. He hasn't been like this in ages. He hasn't been like this since long before we were on our last assignment. He's so still and rigid. It's almost like…._

A noise distracted her, a small sigh and a soft thump. She turned her head to see what it might be, and the movement made her grab at the edge of the table, suddenly dizzy. To her horror, she saw that the sound she'd heard was head of the person sitting beside her striking the table.

She looked around and saw that everyone seemed to be slumping down or falling over in their chairs. Carter was fighting it. Stark was already gone. Even Moore was down.

"Yasha," she mumbled, fighting the darkness creeping in around the edges of her vision. He had not moved. He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes were full of despair. His fingers twitched on the glass, and it shattered in his hand.

 _No. No, no, no…._

She tried to push away from the table, but his metal hand encircled her wrist firmly, holding her there.

A voice she had hoped never to hear again came from the door that led to the kitchens.

"Do not fight it, Black Widow. I assure you the dosage was precise and sufficient even for you."

 _Petrov. For the love of all that is holy, how?_

"Take her now, Soldat. Get her to the car."

She stared in horror as Yasha rose and turned to lift her. She had no strength to fight him as he scooped her up and began to walk toward the door. He did not look at her face again. She could have been a package, a piece of furniture…

… _a corpse…._

"Yasha?" she managed weakly, strugging to raise her hand and touch his face. Her hand was caught be someone else's, and a metal restraining cuff was snapped around her wrist, fastened to her other with a loud click.

"No. Not anymore, Natalia Alianovna, " said Petrov, smugness in every syllable. "Not anymore."

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 **CLIFF HANGER! (The more you review, the faster I write, lovelys.)**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: A holiday update for you. Enjoy.**

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 _Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~ Franklin D. Roosevelt_

 _Pain of mind is worse than pain of body. ~Latin Proverb_

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I.

She woke up in stages, and despite her training, she could not make the world behave rationally. The first time her eyes opened, she saw the curving ceiling of a transport vehicle of some kind. She was on her side, jostling with every bump they passed over. Her hands were still bound, and when she shifted, she felt the weight of restraints on her ankles as well.

The Soldier sat rigidly beside her with his knees folded up, arms braced across them for stability. Unlike her, he was totally unfettered. He was staring at nothing. His only movement came from the jouncing of the transport. He could have been a mannequin for all the signs of life he exhibited.

She tried to speak, but somewhere between the intention and the action slid the drugs Petrov had given her, and she only managed to part her lips slightly and draw in a deep breath.

His eyes were on her instantly, and all the life that was missing from his bearing was present in his eyes. She tried to reach out to him, managed to make her fingers move slightly. He watched her with those stormy eyes but did not move in any other way.

A wave of dizziness swamped her, and the scene dissolved.

II.

The second time she woke up, she heard low thrumming of powerful engines and felt the distinctive swaying of a large boat in motion. She was on a cot, her hands and feet bound to the four corners with heavy manacles.

She scanned the small room. It looked as though it might have originally been designed as crew quarters. The door was open to a large shadowy space. Something was beyond it, but she could not make it out. The engine noise seemed to be coming from that direction. She managed to move her head slightly and looked at the rest of the room. Another low cot like the one she was bound to was against the opposite wall. On it was another inert form. She studied it, and her mind finally clicked the pieces together enough for recognition.

 _Carter._

She found enough strength to pull weakly at the chains that bound her. As they clinked together, she froze, but it wasn't fast enough. Almost immediately, she heard steps coming toward her.

A pale hand slid around the facing of the door and flipped a switch. Light flooded the room and the sudden brilliance was confusing. She blinked and winced when suddenly a silhouette blocked out some of the worst of it.

 _Petrov._

She could see only the outline of him, but the sound of his voice and a sudden slight flare of light from the lenses of his round glasses as he tilted his head were unmistakable.

"You never cease to amaze, Black Widow. That dose should have kept you down until we arrived, but…"

He withdrew a syringe from the pocket of the white coat he wore, held it up to the light, and thumped it lightly. She tried to force herself to fight him or do something, _anything,_ except keep lying there helpless, but her body was not willing to cooperate.

"…this should take care of the problem and help you be a good girl until we can get you back home…."

Petrov's fingertips lingered on curve of her bicep after he finished giving her the shot, and she longed for nothing more than the ability to fling his hand away. Petrov trailed his fingers up her arm, lightly brushed her cheek, and ran the tip of his index finger over the curve of her bottom lip. She glared at him, wishing for a blade, a rope, a free hand, anything…. Trying to escape him, all that she managed was to roll her head slightly to the side, a low groan of frustration escaping her as she felt the chemicals burning through her body. Her new position allowed her to look out the door.

 _And there he is._

The Soldier was seated on a metal bench directly across from the door, his gaze riveted to her. Their eyes connected, and she saw his hands slowly clench on the edge of the bench and heard the sound of metal twisting under his titanium grip. Slowly, as if he were pushing up against unimaginable weight, the Soldier stood. His entire body shook with the effort.

Petrov's hand stopped instantly, and he turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at the noise. He clucked his tongue and shook his head as if he were a disappointed teacher, not a man provoking some of the deadliest beings on the planet.

"Ah. Yes. Another _malfunction_ …."

He turned back to her and stroked her forehead lightly, curled a strand of her hair around his index finger.

"So much to do to fix you both…."

With Petrov's other hand, he lazily gestured toward the door. Natasha heard the sound of something heavy striking flesh and a low grunt of pain. Her eyes flew helplessly back to the doorway. The Soldier was doubled over, and a guard with a blackjack stood over him, arm drawn back to hit him again. Petrov stroked her hair one final time before turning to go, flicking the fingers of his other hand at the door again, and she heard that same impact, that same low growl.

"Fortunately, I am able to find ways to enjoy my work…."

And then the drugs took her and the world faded away again.

III.

The next time the world came into focus, she was much more clear-headed. She had no idea how much time might have passed, but she recognized her surroundings immediately. She was in the basement vault of the decommissioned bank. The ornate carvings told her that. It had been transformed since her last trip there. It had been divided into two main areas.

Where before the town's records had been taking up the lion's share of the space, now two sleek operating tables and banks of equipment, only some of which she recognized, had taken over. In the corner by itself, hunkered down like a beast readying for the attack was the completed version of the menacing chair she had seen them building on her last report. In its finished form, the chair had two arms that held curiously cupped ends aloft in an almost perfect circle like some kind of corrupt halo. She saw multiple massive restraints along the arms and legs of the chair, and although she was not sure what it was used for, she feared it.

She was in the second portion, separated from the main area by a wall of thick metal bars. The massive walls of the safe made up the other three sides of her cell, but she was not confined in any other way. She found she could sit up, and she did so, sliding her body weakly to lean against the wall.

No sooner had she settled, panting from the effort, than Petrov appeared in front of her cell.

"Awake again? Good, good. We have much work to do." He appeared happy, eager, a child about to receive a holiday treat.

"Whatever it is you want, Petrov, get on with it. You know where I come from. There is no torture you can contrive that will break me. Your best bet is to kill me now and save us both, you from frustration and me from having to be near you a second longer than necessary."

Again, his face had that sudden, heartfelt look of disappointment she'd seen earlier.

"Natalia Alianovna….do you really think we have brought you here to kill you?"

She refused to answer.

"No, no. We are here to _help_ you. We want you to return to full mission readiness, to function at your peak. We are here to reset you, to find the cause of your malfunction and adjust things until it no longer impedes your abilities. That is all."

"I'm not your damned machine, Petrov," she hissed.

He took off the small round spectacles and polished them on the tail of the white coat with a little sigh.

"Not my personal property, no. That is true. You belong to our glorious nation, to the organization who forged you, trained you, lifted you above the mud and death of the ordinary. But a machine? Oh, yes, Natalia. How could you possibly be anything else?"

She turned her head away.

"A little demonstration will show you what I mean."

He stepped away from the bars of the cage and called a sharp command. Four soldiers came in dragging the slumped half-naked body of the Soldier between them. He seemed barely conscious, and she could see bruises and broken flesh across his face, back, and chest as they shoved and pulled him into the giant metal chair. A technician near one of the machines on the far wall threw a switch once they had him more or less in position, and the metal restraints snapped into place. His head hung, and she could hear him mumbling something, but could not make out the words.

Petrov turned back to her.

"You should actually be quite proud. Your…charms…apparently exceed even Mother's hopes for you. Somehow, you managed to undermine the Winter Soldier's base programming so thoroughly that he became very nearly completely unmanageable. We will have to use a master reset on him and lay down a new layer of patterning. "

Natasha watched as the Soldier began to become more aware of his surroundings. With effort, he was able to roll his head back against the chair, and she saw the exact moment he realized where he was, saw every muscle in his body tense as he began to fight the restraints.

"No. NO. No, no, no, no…" he howled, pulling with all his force, but the chair had been made with this in mind, and it did not even shift.

Suddenly he saw her.

"Natasha," he cried, voice breaking on her name. A technician came over with a bite guard in his hand. The Soldier turned his head away, body straining to find some way of escape, yelling curses and broken phrases at the top of his lungs. Petrov walked over, picked up a small red book with a star on its cover, and leaned down near the Soldier's head. He whispered something Natasha could not hear. The Soldier thrashed as much as the restraints allowed, and the sounds he made were more animal than human. When Petrov finished, he closed the book, laid it down on a small table nearby and straightened.

"Soldat," he said imperiously, just that one word.

A tremendous shudder wracked the Solider, but in its wake was utter stillness. He stopped shouting, stopped fighting the restraints. Instead, he lay docilely, staring straight up at the vault ceiling.

"Ready to comply," he said, voice hollow, empty, dead.

"Good, good. Stay where you are. Prepare for reset."

The technician approached again, and this time, when the bite guard was placed before his mouth, the Soldier obediently opened and allowed it to be inserted. He bit down on it with no expression whatsoever. He did not flinch when the technicians began to attach various monitors to him or when they inserted an IV.

"What did you do to him?" Natasha called.

Petrov strolled back over to the bars. "I brought him back under control, my dear. You could say I used a failsafe. We don't have one built into you quite yet, but we soon will. It is a tedious process, one the Red Room does not usually bother with, but clearly it will be necessary to make sure we are able to properly maintain you…."

"No," she spat. "It's like you flipped a switch on him and turned him off. It's horrible."

"Malfunctioning equipment has to be repaired, Natalia. If it cannot fulfill its purpose, what good is it? You will understand better soon."

One of the technicians called out from across the room, "Sir, we are ready."

Petrov turned from her with a slight smile. "Proceed."

She watched helplessly as the Soldier lay there, as the back of the chair leaned, as the horrible black metal halo split, became like malformed hands that wrapped around his face and head in an obscene caress.

"Yasha," she murmured, pulling herself to the bars, forcing herself to stand. "Petrov, stop…."

Petrov ignored her, all his attention focused on the technician who was checking the readout on a huge monitor. The technician looked at Petrov and nodded.

"Hard reset ready."

Petrov nodded back. "Begin reset."

The technician pulled a lever on his console, and electricity arced through the halo into the Solider. He screamed hoarsely around the mouthguard, his body convulsing as each jolt of current slid through him. The restraints held him in place, but Natasha could see where they cut into his flesh.

"Petrov! Stop it! Make them stop!" Natasha shouted.

He ignored her. The current continued to force the Soldier's body to writhe. The technician flipped the switch, and like a marionette with its strings cut, the Soldier fell limp. Technicians rushed up with various pieces of equipment to analyze him with. One gave him a set of injections from a tray full of needles, emptying syringe after syringe into the shoulder of his flesh arm.

The back of the metal chair slid back into its upright position, and the Soldier's head lolled to the side. Two large guards stepped forward and lifted him, carried him out of the room.

Petrov finally turned back to her briskly rubbing his hands together. She backed away from the bars slowly until her back pressed against the wall. He studied her reaction, and the flicker of a smile traced his lips.

"We'll have him operational again in no time. As for you however…."

Natasha felt a portion of the wall move beneath her hands and then there was a quick sharp pain in her arm. She looked down to see a small panel through which a syringe was being withdrawn. Her vision swam. Her knees buckled. Petrov continued to speak.

"…you are going to require much more time and effort."

The bars that had separated her from the rest of the room seemed to be sliding into the floor, but perhaps that was only an illusion created by whatever they had drugged her with. She lay on the floor unable to do anything other than watch Petrov's feet get closer and closer to her. They stopped before her, and surreally, she could see her own reflection, wide-eyed, gasping, in the shine of his shoes. She felt a hand stroke lightly through her hair in a gentle caress, not unlike the touch one might bestow on a favored dog to soothe it.

"Never fear, Natalia. I am willing to expend both."

Strong hands lifted her, and the world spun. She was placed on hard metal, felt the restraints securing her, tried to turn her face away from the insistent fingers trying to put something in her mouth, and failed. There was more pain in her arm, someone giving her injections, and Petrov's voice rose and fell throughout all of it like some nightmarish lullaby. Panting around the mouthguard, Natasha fought to respond somehow, to find some way to escape, but that horrible glass wall separated her mind from her body, and she lay helpless as Petrov stepped away, the chair slowly slid backward, and the cold black hands of the machine rotated down and embraced her.

Then there was nothing but pain.

* * *

 **As is probably pretty obvious, the next chapter probably won't be a very happy place. Stay with me folks, brighter days are coming for our pair, but I wanted to warn you in advance that there will be some rough patches first. Thanks to those of you who have reviewed lately. It means a lot to me to know that you are enjoying this story.**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Here there be monsters.**

* * *

 _Seasons came and changed the time_

 _When I grew up, I called him mine_

 _He would always laugh and say_

 _"Remember when we used to play?"_

 _Bang bang, I shot you down_

 _Bang bang, you hit the ground_

 _Bang bang, that awful sound_

 _Bang bang, I used to shoot you down_

 _~ "Bang Bang" Nancy Sinatra_

* * *

I.

 _It was better here, deep below the surface. The darkness had been frightening, threatening, hungry at first, but now it was an old friend. Currents slid by softly, gentle, friendly fingers stroking the hair, the face. As long as she was below the surface, nothing could find her._

 _Nothing could hurt her._

 _Above, the silver surface of consciousness rippled. Abstract patterns shifted. There had been noise there, someone screaming, someone she knew. The sound was like a knife paring slivers off her heart, but she was unable to do anything about it except pray for the darkness to make it stop. There was color, garish and constantly moving, flashes of brilliant light. Now, though, the surface was still, calm, like a mirror. Despite its current placid behavior, she feared it. Even deep in the calm cradle of the darkness, if she considered it too long, uneasiness returned._

 _The only thing here now was the Voice._

 _It explained over and over that she belonged to Hydra._

 _(Hail.)_

 _And, for the moment, to the glorious Soviet Union._

 _(But only for now.)_

 _And that she had to obey, to do as she was told, to be a good weapon, that she served a glorious purpose, that her greatest good came from obedience, that she had been crafted to serve and obey, only to serve and obey…._

 _At first, she had fought it, but when she did that, she got closer and closer to that silver surface where all the bad things were. When she let it speak, let the Voice wash around her, wash through her, she drifted deeper into the comforting dark._

 _Now it called her name, gently, enticingly. She feared it more than anything because she knew the softness was a lie, a trap. She had allowed it to call her out of the darkness before…_

 _(Didn't I?)_

… _.and then there was…_

 _(No. I don't want to think about that.)_

 _It was better to stay here._

 _(Except there was something….something I needed….wanted…something that was mine…)_

 _The Voice laughed at her softly, indulgently, an adult laughing at the impossible whimsy of a child. "Yours? There is no such thing… Weapons own nothing. You belong to us."_

 _She tried to sink deeper. She had found a place where the Voice could not reach her, but she felt the dangers of it. The silver surface was only a glimmering speck there. She had the feeling that if she stayed in this place too long, the surface would disappear altogether._

 _Part of her longed for that, for the Voice and the light and the *thing* that waited in it to be forever out of her reach._

 _(But… there is something….something I need first….)_

 _Suddenly, the Voice grew louder and the silver surface flew nearer. It was as if she'd been scooped up and dragged. A sound of despair came from somewhere as the rippling boundary came closer and closer._

 _(From me?)_

 _She broke through it. Someone was crying, screaming._

 _(I am….)_

II.

She sat on the cot in the small cell, back straight, legs together, hands folded primly in her lap. Her eyes registered the wall before her, but it was meaningless, as was the cold of the room, the slight distant dripping of water from somewhere, the scent of dust and blood. There were no windows in this room. The door was a seamless part of the wall, and so her universe was encompassed in good strong grey metal. She was aware of all the input, but as yet, no one had told her that any of it mattered, so she simply waited.

They no longer allowed her to retreat into the darkness. The Voice still came from everywhere, but by now, it was as normal to her. It was simply a fact of the universe. She breathed in air. She drank water when it was brought. She sat still unless she was told otherwise. She listened to the Voice.

III.

There was a massive noise, the sound of an explosion, and gunfire. She continued to sit calmly. If there were something she needed to do, the Voice would tell her. She heard the sound of running feet pounding down the hallway, and someone was yelling a name over and over.

"Natasha! Natasha!"

Something inside her stirred, then quickly quieted. Did that have meaning for her?

( _No. Weapons have no names. The Voice will call for me when I am needed.)_

She heard the sound of a scuffle, the sound of punches landing, the bark of a small caliber weapon.

"Barnes!" a voice shouted, a woman's this time. "We have to go!"

"Not without her. She's got to be here somewhere," the first voice snarled in response, full of anger, fury, and despair.

( _But I know him. I…know…him?)_

"It will do neither her nor us any good if we don't get out of here right now."

"I have to find her. She has to be here."

Something struck a blow to the wall of the hallway. Small trickles of dust filtered down from the ceiling above her. She did not move.

"You don't know what they will do to her, what they will make her. I can't go and let them…"

The second voice softened. "You don't even know she's still in this facility. The guard said she was gone, and you've found no proof he was lying. We have to get out now. You know she would tell you to go, wouldn't she?"

"I can't leave her, Peggy."

"And we can't stay. Our people can only hold this opening so long. If we don't go right now, they will have all of us again, and whatever it is they are doing to her will never stop. If we go, we can find her and make them pay."

That distant part of her held its breath.

Another impact.

"Okay," the first voice said. "Okay."

And the noise disappeared.

IV.

The man with the Voice brought her clothing, a uniform. She put it on, a small rill of excitement trickling through her.

He would give her a purpose now. He was preparing her for use.

And she wanted to be *of use.* There was no higher joy for her that to be of use.

The door opened, and he led her down the hall into a large open space.

( _I know this place…I know it…I know…)_

"Widow," the man with the Voice said gently, fondly, and she turned to face him, leaving the thought unfinished. He was going to tell her what to do so she could fulfil her purpose.

Across the room, she was aware that a door had opened. A tall man walked in dressed as she was in black. Something silver gleamed, caught her eye, made her think again of the darkness and safety.

( _His hand. His hand shines silver like… like…)_

But the Voice was speaking again.

"Widow, that man is an enemy of all we stand to protect."

Her stance shifted, and she *saw* him for the first time. Significantly taller and heavier than she, his movements were easy, loose as he shrugged out of the black jacket he wore to reveal a gleaming silver arm.

She saw the red star on the bicep and frowned.

( _Enemy? No…He is not…He is not…)_

The man with the Voice saw her confusion. "I know he wears the star, but he has betrayed us all. You are to end him now. He will not make it easy for you. You will have to use all your power and skill. Kill him. You are his executioner."

She nodded, and the unease inside of her evaporated. This, she knew how to do. This is what she was made for.

She looked at the man, at his face.

( _His eyes are wrong. Those are not his eyes, not his face….That is… not… not…)_

He charged toward her with a roar, and her thoughts switched off.

They danced.

He produced a knife from somewhere, spinning it between his fingers, but she reached out and plucked it from him as easily as if it had been from a child, kicked his knee hard enough to shatter it, and when he fell, she pulled back his hair and slit his throat from ear to ear.

V.

The man with the Voice smiled and turned to a figure seated in the darkness.

"You see? Is the not ready? I told you it could be done."

The figure rose and when light fell on his face, it was familiar. Something rustled in her memory.

( _Ivanov…Commander…superior….)_

Ivanov stood looking at the corpse for a moment, took a small step backward away from the blood as it slowly pooled across the floor toward the large drain.

"You have my approval. You will, however, need to move quickly. The Red Room is looking for her." He paused, considering again the silver arm of the body bleeding out before him. " _He_ also seeks her, and he's cutting down the ranks between him and us like they are paper dolls."

"Leave it to me, sir. I told you before that I had everything under control."

Ivanov looked up and nailed the man with the Voice with a hard glare. "See that you do, Petrov. Bait your trap well, and make sure he doesn't escape it because if we should lose them both again, we are dead men."

VII.

Time passed. She had no idea of how long. It did not interest the man with the Voice, so it did not interest her. She did as she was told. A routine was established. She woke. Food came. She practiced her skills. She rested. She came to the room and a man with a silver arm attacked her. She killed him. She returned to her cell. The Voice praised her. The man with the silver arm was evil. He was the enemy of the state, a traitor. Only she could stop him.

It was her purpose.

VI.

She sat at a desk in the office of a large empty warehouse. A bed with a twisted metal frame sat in one corner, red and green blankets folded at its foot. She was spattered in blood. Some of it was hers. Most of it was not.

Last night, the Voice had come to her and explained. It was time to kill the man with the silver arm again. Today, there would be a variation. An alarm would sound. Her door would open. She was to fight her way out of the facility and get into the vehicle waiting for her. She was then to report to this location and kill the man with the silver arm here.

It had been absurdly easy. She'd killed four men, left five others weeping or unconscious.

Now she waited for the appearance of the man with the silver arm.

She heard a footstep, soft, cautious, almost inaudible. She stood and pointed her gun at the doorway.

"Natasha?"

It was a whisper, but it made something twitch in her mind, like a spark over a gap in electrical wiring. Her hand shook slightly, but she pushed it away.

( _I know that voice. I know it. I know it. I know…)_

Through the tiny communication device they had fitted into her ear, she heard the Voice.

" _Greet him. Draw him closer. Wait to strike until you have a perfect shot. Play the game, Widow."_

She licked her lips and called softly, "Here. In here."

There was a whisper of sound, and there he was in the doorway, the man with the silver arm.

 _(Except. Except not.)_

Like all the others, he was taller than she, heavier, dressed in black except for the shimmering silver of his hand. Her eyes met his, and in their blue-grey depths, she saw something other than terror or rage. She saw herself reflected there, and she felt her heartrate accelerate for some reason.

He looked at the gun in her hand, and she forced herself to lower it. He stayed in the doorway.

"Natasha," he said again, and he took a small step toward her. Her hand itched to raise the weapon, to end this activity with its sudden disquieting turn, but if she could get him closer, she could be more sure of the kill. There was still a chance he could dodge and escape. Since the kill was her purpose, she produced a smile, grateful, slightly tremulous, and allowed the slightest sheen of tears to rise in her eyes.

The Voice spoke, " _Call him Yasha."_

"Yasha," she breathed. That thing twisted inside her, savagely, as if it had been brought to life by that word. Suddenly, the tears were not fake at all.

A light flickered in the man's eyes, and he stepped forward, crossing the distance until he stood just before her. He reached up to cup her cheek, and she realized that she would do anything, a _nything,_ to feel that caress. Every part of her craved it, demanded it. His fingertips grazed her skin.

" _Now, Widow. You will kill him now."_

And he froze slightly, almost as if he'd heard the impossibly soft Voice himself. A bitter smile twisted his mouth, but he completed his gesture, gently stroking her face, as she pressed the muzzle against his rib cage and pulled the trigger.

* * *

 **In all fairness, I did warn you it would be dark…**

 **Don't despair, lovelies. You know their story doesn't end like this. We are almost to the end of the super-extended flashback started waaaay back in Chapter 2. That's all. More to come.**

 **If you are still speaking to me, I wish you'd leave a review. They mean the world to me. Thanks to all of you who have been commenting and encouraging.**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who joined us and who reviewed after that last chapter. Nobody threw things, for which I was grateful. On we go.**

* * *

 _Been away so long I early knew the place_

 _Gee, it's good to be back home_

 _Leave it till tomorrow to unpack my case_

 _Honey disconnect the phone_

 _I'm back in the USSR_

 _You don't know how lucky you are, boy_

 _Back in the US_

 _Back in the US_

 _Back in the USSR_

 _~ "Back in the USSR" – The Beatles_

* * *

I.

Natasha knew other people had come storming into the empty warehouse, that there was movement everywhere, but she and the Soldier had remained just as they were, his hand gently cupping her cheek, the muzzle of her gun pressed against him. It was as if time for them had frozen in this moment of utter horror.

All she had been able to see was that lack of surprise and something so fierce in his eyes that it would haunt her nightmares for long ages before she remembered any of the rest of their time together. He'd leaned in and kissed her softly, so softly, but she'd tasted blood on his lips. When he'd staggered back slightly, she'd seen it there, felt the heat of it on her own.

Then he'd fallen slowly to his knees, eyes still on hers as if he were trying to tell her something, one last crucial thing, and he'd slumped to the floor.

II.

Meanwhile, although she was only marginally aware of it, there was shouting all around her. Mother had come sweeping in just after Natasha had shot the Soldier, and now she was standing toe-to-toe with Ivanov, whose normally calm demeanor was gone, revealing the dark monster inside him. Three beautiful young women in black uniforms stood behind Mother, faces calm, postures relaxed, eyes utterly deadly.

"You have no authority here! This is my mission!" snarled Ivanov.

Mother did not yell. She did not step back from the raging officer even the slightest distance. Instead, she smiled gently, indulgently, and two of the soldiers flanking Ivanov took an involuntary step back, hands dropping to their sidearms.

"It is true that _this_ is your mission," she said, gesturing with an elegant unfurling of the hand at the empty warehouse and the wreck of the Winter Soldier. "However," and her tone sharpened as she pointed at Natasha who still stood frozen staring down at the pool of blood that streamed from beneath the Soldier, " _that_ is outside of your division. _She_ is the property of my house, Ivanov."

Ivanov smirked and opened his mouth, but Mother cut him off.

"No. Our joint training endeavor is over, terminated by special order from Command." She flicked a finger, and one of the young women behind her held out a letter.

Frowning, Ivanov took it, tore it open, and looked at it. He grew visibly paler as he scanned.

"Yes," purred Mother. "It would appear you have a journey ahead of you. I would use it to come up with some stratagem to keep your head. I would imagine your rank is beyond salvaging." She turned sharply, dismissing Ivanov from her world completely, and strode toward Natasha. The three young widow trainees spread out behind her, forming a barrier between her and Ivanov.

Mother evaluated Natasha as she approached, taking in the tremors that raced through the agent, the elevated breathing, the hand clenched bone white around her weapon, the bright red smear of blood on her mouth, the utter lack of awareness of anything other than the Winter Solider at her feet. Mother sighed.

"Such waste. Mismanagement and foolish arrogance," she murmured. "I repeatedly told Command that I did not think Ivanov's methods meshed well with our stratagem in the Red Room, but at that time he had highly-placed allies. They maintained putting them together would result in unlimited benefits, that the bond that grew between them would make him easier to control, requiring hard reset less often, and that their greater independence as a team would make them unstoppable." She shook her head. "As if unstoppable is always a good thing. Now one is completely non-functional, and we will have to rebuild the other."

"Natalia Alianovna," she said, voice ringing out in the echoing room. Natasha's head snapped toward her, and she instantly turned and came to that centered dancer's position of attention that had been beaten into her so long ago.

"At least the base level of patterning has not been damaged," Mother noted. She raised her voice again, "It is time to go home, Natalia. This mission is over. You will return with me to base."

Ivanov was shouting orders. Petrov scurried here and there in his white coat. A small team of men scrambled forward with a stretcher and rolled the Winter Soldier onto it. With difficulty, they hefted him and carried him toward the little office where Natasha had waited for him earlier.

Natasha's eyes flicked again to the huge pool of blood on the concrete after the body was removed, and she began to shake again. "I… I killed him, Mother. They told me to, said he was the enemy. But I knew him… I… He…"

Mother took a small step forward and firmly gripped Natasha's chin, forcing her to turn her head away from the gore. There was no cruelty in the gesture, but it was absolutely inescapable. "Yes. You had a mission, and you completed it perfectly as always, Black Widow. That is all you need to remember about this." Mother's gaze flickered over Natasha's shoulder, one of the young women stepped quickly forward, and suddenly Natasha felt a small prick in the muscle of her upper arm. The world rapidly went fuzzy, and as she collapsed, other arms wrapped around her, lifting her.

Mother spoke to the three young widows-in-training who were her escort. "This is why we never use the _chair,_ girls. While effective, it is inelegant, and it causes as many problems as it may resolve. See her confusion? We must never be unsure. We must always be in perfect command of every aspect of the situation. The chair does not ensure obedience. It makes puppets. Puppets have strings that tangle and cause lack of control. That _mudak_ Petrov thinks himself quite the expert, but our house is well rid of him." She adjusted the collar of her long coat slightly as their group walked toward a transport that had been pulled in through the large doors of the warehouse.

They placed Natasha inside, and as the vehicle pulled away, Mother addressed Natasha again, a rare gentleness in her voice, "You did everything you were asked, even by those too foolish to have been allowed to give you commands. You did not fail. You never fail." A cool hand gently brushed the hair away from her face. "And we will soon put everything those ham-handed fools did to rights, child. Trust Mother."

And the drugs took her and she knew no more.

III.

In later years, Natasha would never be sure exactly how much time passed after that. The world slipped in and out of focus. She was aware of a repeating cycle of physical training activities, medical sessions, tests. For the most part, though, the world slipped silently by her like the currents of some vast colorless river.

Then the day finally came when she woke in her quarters in the Red Room, knew exactly where she was and why she was and what she should do next, rose, dressed in the garments of her trade, and went to find Mother for orders.

Years passed becoming decades, and always she was the keen blade sliding between the ribs, the poison in the champagne, the last kiss before the endless night, everything the Red Room had designed her to be. She trained others to follow her steps, but none of them were ever quite the equal to the original.

She did not age as the others did. Mother, that constant figure, faded and was replaced. Then her replacement did as well. Natasha received new government papers periodically, updating her name, her birthdate, her place of origin. She was cycled through the ballet and through obscure government positions as cover, and if any of the older members of the ballet thought her familiar and commented on it, they were told that, yes, she was a distant relative of that other young woman they'd known so long ago, and wasn't the family resemblance strong?

She continued, executing her orders with perfect attention to every detail. She danced on every stage in the world to resounding applause. She pillaged the secrets of the enemy with a similarly artful disregard for their security protocols. She was held up as the pinnacle of her intelligence agency, a triumph of Soviet science and training. She was unstoppable death made beautiful and enticing.

Through it all, she was aware of a certain hollowness growing inside her. Something important was missing. She didn't question it. After all, she saw much the same emptiness in the eyes of almost everyone she was surrounded by. It was just another unavoidable part of her existence. Talking about it was useless, a sign of weakness that those who saw themselves as her rivals would seek to exploit and those who handled her would consider a flaw in need of repair. Therefore, if she had nightmares in which a man with storm-blue eyes kissed her gently and died at her feet over and over, if she woke in tears crying out a name she could not remember once she was fully conscious, one could be quite sure that there was no trace of it in her performance the following mornings.

IV.

She was sitting at the café table, sipping absently at the cup of tea in front of her, looking for all the world like a tourist watching the hustle and bustle of the city slip past and enjoying a moment of rest before resuming the shopping spree the bags beside her indicated she'd been on. In reality, she was waiting for this new contact, this person who would hopefully be her gateway into what would likely be the most dangerous game she'd ever played.

This place was good for a meeting, her contact had said, and she could see why. It was off a large square, and she could see easily all the routes of approach. It was nice enough, but not one of the trendy chains, so the little outdoor seating area was mostly empty, providing at least the illusion of privacy.

She was to pose as an agent who was looking to defect to the West. Balancing the ruse was going to be the masterpiece of her career. There was every chance she could be discovered, could be ruled a liability by those who now ruled her, be sanctioned, sacrificed as a part of a larger gambit in this endless game.

It didn't matter much to her. She'd long since lost any sense of worry or self-preservation. Her hands were bloody, and her heart and soul were battered and broken by the things those who owned her made her do for them.

 _But what else is there? What else can there be?_

This was who she was, what she did, and the risk only added a certain zest to it.

 _At least it is something new, a challenge of sorts. I had given up hope that there could even be such a thing._

Then the deferential waiter paused by her table, and she looked up into the face of the slightly worn man with him. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been targeting her with a high-tech bow from the top of a roof in the darkened night.

V.

She'd been sent to kill the young son of a politician who had fled to West Germany. Finding and entering the safehouse had been laughably easy, almost insultingly so. She'd been on the balcony, hidden in shadows and waiting for the house to settle down for the night. She'd watched through the window as the politician carried his already sleeping son in and put him in the little bed.

The boy had reached up and sleepily hugged his father. The man had pulled him tight to him for a long moment, hugging him before gently pressing a kiss to the top of his head and tucking him in. The politician had crossed the small space to the door, clicked off the lights, and stood looking at the child as the light from the hall spilled across his peaceful face. Then he'd pulled the door closed and walked away.

It was the moment Natasha had been waiting for. The window latches might not have been there for all the difficulty they gave her. She slipped in and stood over the bed, a shadow among shadows. Her hand found the hilt of the knife at her hip, but she did not draw it. Instead, she just looked at the small form under the blankets.

 _You are so loved, little one. So cared for. Has anyone ever cared for me that much?_

Some whisper of a memory floated through her mind, a flash of silver, a pair of fierce eyes, the taste of blood on her lips….

She took a slight step back, and the door to the bedroom suddenly opened. The politician froze when he saw her. She watched his panicked gaze rake from her to the boy on the bed and back. She saw his hand clutch on the doorknob, knew he was gauging his chances.

"You wouldn't make it," she murmured softly.

He took a tiny step forward anyway. "Please," he whispered, no more than that, but there were worlds in it. Something inside her snapped into place, something that had been out of alignment for longer than she could even determine.

 _I will not do this. I will not be this. The world will come soon enough, dragging its tide of blood and nastiness to their door. But it will not be me. Not tonight._

She shook her head, decision made. "Get out of here. Tonight. Now. Run. Do you understand me? Run, and don't stop running."

The man made a strangled sound and darted to his son, scooping him up protectively. When he turned around, she was already gone.

As she was moving down the side of the house, she saw the archer stand up from his hiding place on the rooftop across the street. The two of them considered one another for a moment, a thousand tiny variables running through each of their minds as they assessed one another. Then, unexpectedly, he had nodded to her, lightly tapping his brow in a mock salute, and he was gone.

VI.

After a moment of shuffling with the waiter, the archer sat down and studied her. She returned his look over the rim of her teacup. Then he smiled as though he nothing could possibly have made him happier than this specific moment.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanov," he said, rolling each syllable with perfect pronunciation and a certain tone of relish. "I've been looking for you, you know."

She froze, and the hand politely resting in her lap slipped slowly for one of her hidden knives. Her mind reviewed her mental maps of the area, plotting the fastest way to get to the port and the transport she had waiting for her there.

 _It will have to be fast. This is not Soviet-held territory…._

Aloud, she said, "I'm sorry. I think you must have me confused with someone else. My name is…"

His laugh cut her off, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His tone was amused, personal, and quiet.

"Oh, no, Black Widow, let's start with the absolute minimum required level of deceit between us. You see, I've been waiting to meet you for a long, long time…."

VII.

"The people I work for are very, very interested in you."

"Really? How flattering," she smiled, lowering her eyes coquettishly before glancing back up at him from under long lashes.

He laughed again, sat back in the seat. "Nice. Bet that works about 80 percent of the time, even."

 _He's likeable_ , she realized as she watched him, _but there is not one unaware thing about him_. _He knows how this game works._

"Closer to 90, I'd say," she replied.

They looked each other over again, assessing. He sighed and turned to wave the waiter over, asking for coffee.

"Does it ever get old?" he asked when the waiter had disappeared into the café.

She raised her brow at him. "Does _what_ ever get old?"

"Shooting fish in a barrel like that? Doing things that are below your skill set?"

 _Shooting fish in a barrel_ … Something rippled inside her uncomfortably. Someone else had said that to her once… Hadn't they?

"And how would you know what my … _skill set_ …did you call it?... is, Mr…"

He didn't take the bait. "There are extensive files on you, Ms. Romanov. Even I was impressed by some of the stuff you've done. That mission where you actually hijacked an entire truckload of spy satellite components in route to the point of assembly, disabled trackers even the project managers hadn't even realized had been placed on the items, and got it all out of the US without anyone even realizing what had happened? Very, very nice."

She smiled a little. "What a fertile imagination you do seem to have. That does sound quite exciting, doesn't it? Almost like a magician."

The archer toyed with the coffee he'd been brought, turning it around and around slowly with his fingertips.

"Then there are other missions. Like the one with the ambassador's daughter. Or the hospital."

Her smile tightened ever so slightly, but it did not disappear. She was far too well-trained for that. The deadness inside her opened its jaws wide and screamed, dust and ashes spewing out across her soul. The average person would not have noticed any change, but she saw the archer see it, recognize it for what it was.

 _No. He is not an average person at all…._

"Sooner or later, Ms. Romanov, you're going to have to decide which version of yourself you can continue to live with. Are you going to be the woman who blew up that entire hospital or the woman who walked away from that man holding his son last night?"

The archer held up his hand and pulled open his coat slightly with the other, showing her he was not reaching for a weapon. She automatically prepared a defensive strategy all the same, shifting her hold on the teacup so it could be thrown with greater accuracy and force. He withdrew a small white card from his inner coat pocket. A stylized eagle adorned one corner. There was no name, no address, only a phone number. He placed it on the table in front her on the table. She continued to look at him without acknowledging it.

"For if you decide you'd rather be the magician than the butcher," he said, pushing back from the table and putting a few bills on the table for the coffee.

"So I just call this and...?"

He smiled. "And we get to see each other again, have another of these quality chats."

She touched the card with a fingertip, withdrew it. "And if I were to choose the butcher?"

Something cold, something she recognized instantly as utterly committed and utterly deadly, showed itself from behind his pleasant demeanor. He shrugged as if it were of no importance, but his eyes said otherwise.

"Oh, in that case, I imagine we'll still see each other. At least one more time, anyway."

He gave her that same slight salute he'd given from the dark rooftop, slid a pair of sunglasses on, and moved unhurriedly toward the bright square. She watched him until he turned the corner, but he didn't look back.

 _I wouldn't have, either._

Assuming she was still being watched by s _omeone, somewhere,_ she finished her tea slowly. She continued to stare at the little card on the table. She'd already memorized the number on it, had done so the first moment she'd glanced at it when he'd put it down. She paid her bill, gathered her packages, and headed back to the hotel room that was her temporary base of operations.

She did not take the card with her.

VIII.

Later that night, she awoke dripping sweat and shivering. The remnants of a nightmare clawed at her, and she swiped angrily at the tears that wet her cheeks. Shoving herself out of bed, she went to the bathroom and ran cold water, splashed it on her face, and dried it with one of the soft, spotlessly white hotel towels.

She paused and studied herself in the mirror. Squaring her shoulders, she came back and sat on the bed, looked at the two items on the bedside table. One was her pistol, gleaming, perfectly maintained. The other was the heavy black telephone, finger-smudged, slightly cracked on one corner of its base as though it had possibly been shoved off the table or thrown.

 _I should go track him down and get rid of him. He knows too much about me, knows me for who and what I really am. It would send a message to his handlers, too, to stay away from me. Finding him would be a challenge, but it could be done. There can't be that many guys around whose primary weapon is a bow._

 _He must think I am the most gullible creature in the world to buy that whole "we can save you from yourself" pile of garbage. I have to admit he sold it well. If I didn't know better, I would have said he believed every word he was saying._

 _But then again, we don't get good in this business by being sloppy liars, do we?_

Her hand extended to take the gun, but she hesitated.

 _But what if…what if he is legitimate? What if I could be…something…something other than a blade in the dark? What if I were a magician instead?_

A tiny seed of something unfurled the smallest green leaf in the wasteland inside her. Quickly, almost as though she were afraid someone would slap her hand away, she reached out and grabbed the receiver of the phone, fingers shaking slightly as she dialed the number and listened to the other end ring…once…twice… Just when she would have hung up, he answered.

"Hello?"

"There's a coffee shop that's open all night and day in front of the municipal museum. Do you know the one I mean?"

"Yeah," he said without a pause. "See you there in twenty."

She hung up. Hands still shaking, she dressed and headed for the door. That hopeful little flutter in her heart had grown. She ignored it, certain that something would come and step on it in its tender infancy, telling herself over and over that she was only going to continue her mission to infiltrate SHIELD.

IX.

That first time she called him out in the middle of the night set a precedent. They met and they talked. It should have been awkward, but somehow they fell into conversation lightly, easily, as if they'd known each other for years. Even with both of them avoiding personal details, she found herself feeling an uncommon sense of affinity with this American.

She called him the next night, too. That was when he finally gave her his name, Clint Barton. The next day, she was recalled suddenly, sent to another city on another mission. Before she left to catch her plane, she took the time to call him and tell him, and he'd simply told her not to worry.

As she'd checked into the hotel in the city she'd been sent to, she looked up to see a familiar face sitting in the hotel bar facing the door. He'd raised a brow at her but otherwise made no other acknowledgment. As she turned to go upstairs to her room, she hadn't bothered to stop the little smile that crept across her lips.

He pursued her, showing up where he should not have known where she would be, constantly putting in front of her the idea that she could use the things she did best for something that mattered, for something that could help instead of destroy. Sometimes when they parted, and she felt that unfamiliar glow of communion, of acceptance for what she really was, there was a voice that whispered in her dreams that this wasn't the first time she'd had this, but the cold clear light of morning always banished that thought.

X.

Eventually, as had probably been inevitable from the first moment she picked up the phone instead of the gun in that hotel room, she became SHIELD's. Although they knew much about her, they didn't know everything. It was not in her nature to give every secret to any master, even a benevolent one that she had sworn herself to willingly. Even when their doctors helped her recover things that had been lost or taken by the Red Room, even when the last dam Petrov and his horrible chair had built so long ago came crashing down and she _remembered it all,_ she had told no one. Yasha's death was one of the heaviest of the burdens she carried around with her.

Then came the day she'd seen the impossible, the Winter Soldier standing so tall and so very much alive, the bullet through her side, the fruitlesssearch and uncertainty that followed. And then Nick Fury was shot three times through the chest through the solid brick wall of Captain America's apartment by a super-strong, preternaturally accurate assassin with a silver metal arm, and the world she'd struggled so hard to build for herself dropped directly out from under her feet.

* * *

 **And that, ladies and gentleman, concludes a twenty chapter long FLASHBACK. On to the "present," action set in CA:TWS. I realize there was little to no Bucky in this chapter, but I felt like this part of things was important to tell, too. We kind of know what happens with Bucky: freeze, thaw, kill somebody, rinse, repeat. This is my idea of the missing years from Natasha's side. Review if you liked it. Review if you didn't. (Sense a theme there?)**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. They really do motivate me to write faster. I like hearing that you enjoy what I do, and I also love hearing where you think this is going next. There is a lot of CA: TWS in this bit, but by now, if you haven't seen that, what the heck are you actually doing here, right?**

* * *

 _And another one bites the dust_

 _Oh why can I not conquer love?_

 _And I might have thought that we were one_

 _Wanted to fight this war without weapons_

 _And I wanted it, I wanted it bad_

 _But there were so many red flags_

 _Now another one bites the dust_

 _Yeah, let's be clear, I'll trust no one_

 _You did not break me_

 _I'm still fighting for peace_

 _Well, I've got thick skin and an elastic heart,_

 _But your blade—it might be too sharp_

 _I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard,_

 _Yeah, I may snap and I move fast_

 _But you won't see me fall apart_

 _'Cause I've got an elastic heart_

~ "Elastic Heart" - Sia

* * *

I.

Natasha had come to know Steve Rogers as an assignment first. Like almost everybody else in America, she knew the brave backstory of Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Unlike most of the rest of her nation, she also knew the official KGB version of their exploits. The history didn't really mean much to her, though, until they found Steve lying in the broken hull of the Hydra ship beneath the ice and snow. For everyone, Natasha included, the moment the radio call came in saying he was somehow alive, he became a real person instead of a historical abstraction.

They were almost the same age, although Fury had been adamant that Steve did not need to know that fact. Only Fury and Clint knew her true origins, and she trusted them absolutely. Fury had gone to great lengths to make sure that specific part of her past stayed obscured even above and beyond the usual paranoid precautions surrounding SHEILD information, and as she had with her KGB handlers, she understood the rationale behind it. While she'd acquiesced to Fury's directive and agreed not to tell Steve, she'd still felt a kinship with him, that tie wrought by science and serum and a life lived beyond the normal, even before she had met the man himself.

Her interest in him at that point had been fleeting, though, the casual sort of curiosity an ex-pat might feel about encountering someone else from a distant homeland. Then came the moment she'd been flipping through the old SSR files on him during a briefing in Fury's office in preparation for their reintroduction of the newly-thawed Captain America to the modern world. Many images were included. The dossier contained information on Erskine, including one photo of several other scientists standing next to him, the man responsible for the change not only in Steve's life but indirectly in her own. While she hadn't said anything about it, she'd noted Howard Stark in the background at a control panel and the distinctive profile of Margaret Carter off to one side. Both were younger in the photos than they'd been when she'd known them, but it was indisputably them.

 _Heh. Looks like we're practically family, Rogers,_ she'd mused, rifling through the remaining documents.

Shots of Steve before and after the serum's administration were there, too, along with the pages and pages of results extensive medical testing they'd done on him both before they began and again once he had survived the transformation. She scanned them without much interest, noting only that unlike the version of the serum they'd fed her, Steve had apparently not had to burn for three days since his transformation had been almost instantaneous. She was unable to decide whether that meant it was a better or a worse thing.

 _Maybe someday we can compare notes… After all, the only other person I know who's been through the serum is…_

She ignored the tiny twitch of the scar tissue near her hip, ruthlessly redirected her thoughts, and refocused on the folder in her hands. Here was a typed report of first-hand accounts of Rogers's famous first rescue mission behind enemy lines to recover the survivors of the 107th. Stark's blueprints of the original Captain America suit and the vibranium shield were there, as well.

Then came the photo of Rogers with his old unit. She only had a chance to view it briefly, Fury's instructions suddenly requiring her full attention as he pulled up a holographic diagram. Her mind continued to process the information from the photo even as she listened to Fury explaining every aspect of the room within a room they would use to gently ease Rogers into this brave new world in which he would awake.

Although her eyes ran over the semi-authentic details from the 1940s, she found the photo much more interesting, and she glanced back down at it again. The background was somewhere deep in a German forest. Signs of a recent battle, felled trees, damaged enemy vehicles, were also visible, but the main focus was the famed Howling Commandos. The men were handsome, young, and even though they were battle-dirty, they were all smiling for the camera, that desperate, vibrant happiness that came from surviving when their enemies had not. Rogers was smiling the boyish grin she'd seen in other photos, face smeared with mud and grime, eyes cast slightly down, hair mussed from having just removed his distinctive helmet. The others were mugging for the camera.

Absently, she began mentally matching the faces she saw with the names of the men on the typed caption at the bottom of the document. And time stopped when she really focused on them because to the left of Captain America, arm draped across the shoulders of the man in blue, red, and white, was her Yasha. Her eyes raced to the caption. _James Buchanan Barnes._

Agent Carter's voice slid through the void of the years, _"Sargent Barnes? James? Can that be…Is that really you?"_

II.

After she made that connection, that *this* was the Steve that Yasha had asked Carter about so many times in those last days, she probably would have striven to protect him no matter what kind of person he had been when he awakened from the ice. Because Steve Rogers had been so precious to Yasha, she wanted to know more about him.

As she'd gotten to know Steve better, fighting beside him, planning and training with him, she had come to admire him for himself. Even though she considered him to be almost frighteningly naïve about the way the world worked at times, he was a demon in a fight and utterly relentless when it came to doing something he felt was right.

 _There are no shades of gray with him, no acknowledgment of the concept of necessary compromises. How long has it been since I knew anyone like that?_

She couldn't help but wonder what Yasha had thought of that side of him. The man she'd known had been a master of navigating the various shades of shadow in which they'd been forced to survive.

 _Was he ever frustrated by it? Did he find himself drawn to it, wanting to protect it even if he didn't understand it or agree with it totally?_

III.

After that first great battle as the Avengers, after they had cautiously and improbably found a way to be a team, after Tony had offered them refuge, there had been conversations. Sometimes Thor would bring some of that Asgardian mead that was the only thing strong enough to counter Steve's serum-enhanced metabolism, and once, when the others were all laughing and talking, he'd tipped the flask over her cup as well, giving her a sly wink of acknowledgment. She'd just smiled that slight smile of hers and taken a sip.

When they were thus relaxed and telling tales, Steve would usually just sit back quietly in a corner of the massive curving sofa, enjoying the company but always somehow separate. It was a feeling she could identify with all too well.

Sometimes, though, he would tell a story about growing up or about something from the war. Always, always, in every story he told, there would be Bucky by his side. Bucky wheedling their train fare so he could have one more shot at winning an even more impressive prize from the target shoot game for the little redhead he was sweet on resulting in the two boys having to hitch a cold ride home in the back of a freezer truck.

 _Liked a redhead even then, did you, Yasha?_

Bucky saving him from bullies in back alleys, trying to teach a weak and frail Steve what he needed to know to protect himself somehow because Steve wouldn't back down or run away. Bucky offering him a place to live in those horrible days after Steve's mother died. Bucky who the girls swooned over when he walked home wearing his new army uniform. Bucky refusing to leave the inferno of the Hydra weapons facility without Steve. Bucky the infallible sniper who always seemed to be there to keep Steve safe. Bucky the practical joker who constantly found ways to wreak havoc on his fellow commandos. Always, always Bucky.

She stored up every new detail those stories revealed, considering them in light of her own experience as the others laughed and challenged each other to various bits of testosterone-fueled and frequently ill-considered behavior. It was as if she had a huge puzzle in front of her with no idea what the final picture might be once they were all assembled.

IV.

And now Nick Fury was dead at the hands of the Winter Soldier, and the two people in the world who knew him best were racing to stop Hydra from destroying the world.

Natasha had been on high alert since that moment when Hill had given the ballistics report. Unlike the other two, she'd known exactly what it meant. If there had been any possibility that she'd been wrong in her identification of him that day when he'd shot his target through her, Hill's words and Steve's story of an impossibly fast, impossibly strong, silver-armed assassin had done away with it. It was almost like she could hear the distant, heavy-booted footsteps of her past marching toward her.

 _Now all our paths will intersect. I wonder if any of us will be able to survive the collision…._

She had managed to dodge and evade any further questions from Steve after that one brief, tense encounter in the hospital. _Having people keep trying to kill us every five minutes has been quite the useful distraction,_ Natasha thought, smirking slightly as she, Steve, his new friend named Sam Wilson, and their captive Jasper Sitwell raced down the elevated Beltway in a small, stolen sedan.

There was not even the tiniest moment of warning before she heard the light thump on the roof of the car and Sitwell was pulled through the window and hurled into the oncoming traffic three lanes over. Her reaction was instantaneous as she flung herself forward instinctively to dodge the bullets that pierced the upholstery where she'd been sitting seconds before, as she pulled Steve's head out of the way of the next rounds.

Then Sam managed to lock the brakes and dislodge their attacker off momentarily. When she saw him sliding across the concrete of the elevated highway as gracefully as a surfer across a perfect wave, she froze. The tiny sparks that flared from his exposed titanium fingertips seemed to be sparking directly from inside her chest cavity, she found that she could not breathe.

All three of them, Sam, Steve, and she, watched as he rose, the wind from passing vehicles still moving in the other lane ruffling that long dark hair, sunlight glinting from the silver of his left arm, and even as some part of her heart was screaming his name, her fingertips finally closed around her weapon and she struggled to bring it to bear.

 _Because I know what comes next. The Winter Soldier is here, and I absolutely know what comes next._

So focused on the dark figure ahead of them were they all that no one realized the heavy military SUV was coming up behind them until it smashed into the rear bumper, shoving the entire sedan forward despite the set parking brake as if the car were merely a child's toy. Natasha watched the Soldier leap effortlessly, and every piece of training she'd ever had snapped into place, compartmentalizing and silencing that rush she'd felt when she'd seen him clearly. The moment the heavy tread of his boots had touched down, she fired.

Then came that gleaming silver arm through the windshield and ripped away the steering wheel.

V.

The car had wrecked, and Steve had saved them all, at least momentarily, by hurling them out of the vehicle just before it was too late. Sam's grip on them had slipped loose, and he had slid across the unforgiving pavement, falling behind. Steve and she had righted themselves more quickly, but not before the Solider had hopped lightly down from the hood of their attackers' vehicle, casually grabbed for the weapon a member of his team was already offering, and chambered an explosive round to blow Steve off the bridge.

Natasha watched helplessly as Steve absorbed the round on his shield, the force of the impact causing him to fly backward and into a luckless city bus below. By then the Soldier's team was firing, spraying bullets from their assault rifles everywhere. She'd had only a moment to see him, but it had been enough to confirm the strategy. While the team used their smaller weapons to chew up cover and try to flush them out, the Soldier waited with his heavier weapon for the perfect shot.

 _Ever the sniper…_

Now that Steve was out of things, at least temporarily, it didn't escape her notice that their attackers were not paying as much attention to Sam as they were to her. She'd been aware that the Soldier's gaze and gun barrel had been tracking her, and she wondered for the hundredth time if he remembered her at all. Sam darted from one vehicle to another, seeking greater cover, but the Soldier's attention never wavered. When she stood to confirm her suspicion and return fire, he blew the car she'd been behind to hell.

 _Even if he doesn't remember us, he knows enough about me to prioritize me as a target. I guess a girl just has to take whatever compliments she can get sometimes…_

She flipped over the median and rolled again and again to avoid the oncoming traffic. The ceaseless chatter of the assault weapons was joined by the squealing of brakes as the motorists caught in the line of fire tried to swerve and avoid. She dove behind a small convertible that had managed to stop, but no sooner had she made it than she heard the distinctive thump of the Soldier's gun and the car exploded, forcing her over the side of the bridge.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her grappling gun, shot for the underside of the bridge, and turned a fall into a graceful swing, landing on her feet already in full flight.

As she fled, Natasha's mind raced seeking any advantage. The Soldier had the high ground. He had all the heavy weapons.

 _The most frightening of which was the Soldier himself with his perfect aim and his strategist's mind._

Moments before she would have burst out from under the cover of the bridge in her quest to seek cover and regroup, she noticed the shadows. The Soldier was patiently waiting for her. He knew she had to find safety and that there wasn't any to be had in the opposite direction, so, still as if he were only one of the concrete light pole bases scattered along the railing he was resting against, he waited for her to emerge, waited for fear to turn her into mindless prey.

 _And then he'd exhale slightly, body falling utterly still as his finger stroked that trigger just once, like a lover's caress, and the insides of my head would be everywhere. Not today, Soldat. Not today. You taught me better than that…._

She turned her momentum and moved sideways until she found cover behind a row of hastily abandoned cars. Then she pulled her pistol and slipped along until she was able to line up a perfect shot.

She hesitated only for the briefest of moments. Yasha's words drifted back to her from the night they'd fought in the warehouse, his halting explanation about what they did to him, about how they took him away from himself and left him only the killing echoed.

 _Yasha…_

Another voice came to her instantly, amused, horrible even after all these years, Petrov in those last moments before the Soldier had carried her out of that dinner in Istanbul and back into captivity. _"Not anymore."_ Her grip firmed.

And she shot him right in the eye and watched him drop.

VI.

On the bridge, fury burned through the Soldier like a blast from one of his handler's stun weapons. Instinctively, he'd taken cover behind the thick concrete railing of the bridge, and for just a moment, he sat as his rage iced over. He lifted his hand and pulled the destroyed eye protectors off, tossing them carelessly aside.

 _Foolish to underestimate her_ , chided his inner voice. _You know they told you she is well-trained._

It had been so long since there was any challenge at all to anything he did, though. He knew he would have to report this laxness to his handler when he made his mission report. After so many endless decades of consequences given for his "faults," he no longer had it in him to dwell on what sort of pain it would bring.

Meanwhile, a part of him clinically assessed and admired the accuracy of the shot. If he'd had any other eye protection than this gear his commander had issued to him personally, this would have ended much differently. In the past, at least what of the past he could currently remember, he had been beaten, burned, electrocuted. He'd been blown nearly in half, cut in combat and slowly skinned by bored handlers, shot through various limbs and the torso more times than he could even count, but he wasn't sure even he could survive a direct bullet to the brain.

 _And what if the answer to that were yes? What if this just goes on and on forever and ever and ever…._

No sooner had the thought formed than he shoved it ruthlessly away, returning instantly to his current mission target. It was the woman, this Natalie Romanov, in fact, who was the more problematic of the two he'd been told to kill. Captain America's patterns and motivations had been explained to him, and he found that he had no trouble understanding what the man would do, how he could be herded into position for what the Soldier's current handler demanded. While the Soldier was always a careful hunter, gathering information, laying traps, this time, he seemed to have an extra sense about these two he'd been sent to kill. Somehow, although he could not explain how, their actions had been easy for him to predict. For the man, it would be as easy as putting others in danger and watching as he ran to stand in front of them.

The woman, though…. She had no such buttons to push, at least none that his commanders were aware of. Her files also indicated that unlike the man, she had few lines she would be unwilling to cross to achieve her mission goals. Again, there was that strange inner knowledge he carried of her that told him even though the man had greater physical strength and that vibranium shield, she was currently the greater danger.

She…disturbed him. As happened sometimes, she caused ripples in the depths of his mind. He knew what followed those ripples. Restraint. Agony. Blankness.

And he stood, flipping the weapon over to full automatic and returned fire. She had found cover behind an overturned piece of heavy equipment, though, and he couldn't flush her immediately or shoot through the obstacle.

 _However, neither can she stay…_

Moments later, as he'd predicted, she rose and fired again until her guns clicked empty, and she darted to the cover of a long line of parked cars, running swiftly, her red hair trailing behind her like the Soviet battle flag.

 _Or a toreador's cape challenging an enraged bull.…_

Just as that thought flickered through his mind, she looked over her shoulder directly at him with that hint of a smirk on her face, as though this was some kind of game they were playing, as though she was challenging him to keep up if he could, and he felt that little flash of …something…again… some old impulse, some half a ghost of a memory. As was so often the case, though, it never coalesced into meaning, so he ignored it, swinging over the side to hunt his prize as he told his crew to find the man.

 _Because the Black Widow with the red hair? She's mine…._

VII.

Natasha watched him lightly leap the railing and descend from the bridge above like a dark god. He didn't even seem to notice the impact, something that would have shattered the leg bones of a lesser being, as he strode forward across the hood of the car he'd just destroyed to continue the mission.

A tension she hadn't felt since those days in the Red Room so long ago slipped through her body, and for just an instant, she could almost hear all the little assassins-in-training whispering again, waiting to see who would be faster this time, the Black Widow or the Winter Soldier.

 _Get ready, girls. You've never seen a show like this one…._

She heard the distinctive sound of a heavy chain gun starting up, its growling buzz growing as it started spewing bullets at the bus Steve had landed in, ripping through it like it was made from aluminum foil instead of heavy steel. She acknowledged it and then put it from her mind.

 _He's a big boy with a magic metal Frisbee. He'll be fine._

She concentrated instead on laying her trap. He had taken her bait, given chase as she'd intended, but now she needed to find a way to finish it or incapacitate him long enough for all of them to escape. She heard the explosion as a police car blew up, but she continued to finalize the last of the details before beginning to circle to the place where she intended to spring from.

For a moment, she just watched him as he stalked forward, using that enhanced hearing to listen for some sign of her. She saw his hunting stride pause as he caught the sound of her voice, recorded on her phone and looped, hidden behind one of the string of cars he'd last seen her running near. He crouched, removed a small silver sphere from a pouch behind him, and rolled the orb unerringly toward where her phone sat behind the hubcap of a parked car. He stood in anticipation of the explosion that would come next, sighting, waiting to pick her off if the grenade itself had not proved sufficient for the job.

She couldn't resist the little surge of triumph she felt as she charged forward, kicked the gun from his hands, and wrapped herself around his neck.

 _Now I know you don't remember me, Yasha, because otherwise, this never would have been this easy…._

The move she made would have snapped the neck on a lesser man, but he just staggered slightly. Because she remembered a million training sessions and several really spectacular fights between them, she knew more would be required to bring him down, and she was already pulling out the slim silver wire from her sleeve. Had he been even a millisecond slower, she would have gotten it around his throat. Instinct and training, however, enabled him to slip his fingers between his vulnerable neck and her garrote, and he rammed her back into the roof of a car hard enough to knock the breath from her in retaliation. Before she could fight back, she felt that deadly silver hand grasp her and she was flying.

The impact into the still-burning car across the street made her head swim, and she fought for consciousness as she watched him bend for his weapon again. By the time he'd brought it to bear, she had gathered herself enough to grab one of the tiny electrically-charged disks she used and fling it at him. Blue lightening flickered out up and down his titanium arm, and she had just enough time to see it hang heavy and dead as she turned and fled, trying to circle back to where she'd last seen Steve.

She'd screamed at the people who were standing around looking at the wrecked cars, unaware of the new danger. She was almost back to the wrecked bus when the almost musical sound of shattering glass immediately preceded a burning agony in her shoulder and she was knocked from her feet as a bullet ripped through her.

Desperately, she put her hand over the gaping wound and looked for him, knowing that he would be on top of her position in moments. Then she heard the sound of his heavy boots on top of a nearby car, and all she could do was stare at him as he adjusted himself for the last shot.

 _So this how it ends. Appropriate, I guess…. Goodbye, Yasha…._

And then, as was his wont, Steve Rogers came flying from nowhere to save her.

VIII.

As she struggled to regain breath and movement, she watched the two of them fight.

 _And wouldn't the little Widows have loved this?_

Even as she was fighting for mastery over the pain, that tactical part of her mind analyzed the titanic battle taking place in front of her. There was beauty in the brutality of it. While both had moments where they had an advantage, neither seemed to be able to gain a clear upper hand. She realized that never had she seen either fight someone who was so nearly their equal as this. Both were masters of combat. Both were strong, agile, motivated. Both were fighting with every resource. When the Soldier pulled one of the long, black-bladed knives from its concealed sheath behind him and spun it carelessly, gracefully though his fingers, the gesture raised a film of tears that had nothing to do with her shoulder wound, and she forced herself up to find something to help.

About the time she saw the Soldier's discarded gun lying off to the side, Steve hurled the Soldier over his shoulder, the muzzle-like mask that had obscured his face was finally ripped away, and there he was.

She saw the exact moment Steve recognized him. The super soldier's body went from a defensive crouch to a completely upright pose, shield sagging where it did him no good. She heard Steve's voice crack as he called out, "Bucky?" The hope in that single word unfroze her, and she scrambled for the gun, knowing that Steve would no longer be able to be even remotely rational now.

The sound of Yasha's voice as he replied in puzzlement, "Who the hell is Bucky?", the first time she'd heard him speak in nearly sixty years, made something inside her tear open and bleed, something she thought had been sealed scar tissue for a long, long time. Gritting her teeth against all the pain, she fought to lift the gun into position as she saw the signs of the Soldier's rigid mental conditioning snapping into place, forcing him to complete his mission as assigned.

Sam swooped down on his metal wings, kicking the Soldier and distracting him just long enough for her to flip the switch to activate the explosive rounds again, and then she fired. When the resulting fireball cleared, he was nowhere to be seen, and the whine of the SHIELD strike team's sirens filled the air as she was dragged forward to where Steve had already been forced to his knees.

IX.

In the way of bullies everywhere, the soldiers had been less than gentle with them as they'd loaded them in a heavily armored transport, their rough hands and laughs of triumph deliberate taunts. None of it seemed to register with Steve. He hadn't struggled against the soldiers who shoved and chained them. He hadn't even look up as they slammed the doors and the vehicle began rolling. Lost in pain of her own, Natasha hadn't had the energy to reach out to him. Finally, Steve had lifted his head, expression full of torment.

"It was him. He looked right through me like he didn't even know me."

Sam immediately began to argue that it wasn't possible, but Natasha just rested her head against the wall of the transport and listened to them. Some part of her wanted to tell Steve that he was right, that it had been his James, _her Yasha,_ and that yes, it did hurt when he'd looked right through the both of them without comprehension.

 _But at least for a minute there, something about you seemed to trigger a response. As for me…_

She shifted, the hot flow of blood oozing from her shoulder glistening against the fabric of her jacket.

 _As for me, as for the woman he spent all those years with, the partner he ran all those missions with, the agent he trained and molded…. the lover he kissed and held… Nothing…_

Her eyes slid to Steve as he connected the dots for himself, relating to Sam how Zola had experimented on Bucky so long ago. She could feel Steve's anguish, could practically see him raking the guilt up by the armful and heaping it onto himself.

 _And there is no lesson you could possibly teach me about that, Captain America._

A million times since she had remembered everything Petrov and Ivanov had tried to make her forget, she had fought back a flood-tide of "what-ifs." What if she had understood what Yasha had been trying to tell her in Istanbul, that they'd been found and that he was being compromised? What if she'd found a way to fight off the things Petrov had done to her, done what Yasha had been able to do and thrown off the effects of the chair and the torment and fought at Yasha's side that final night in the warehouse instead of serving as the bait in the trap that had allowed their handlers to regain him and plunge them both into decades of suffering? What if… what if….

"None of that is your fault, Steve," she murmured.

She saw him consider that, reject it.

"Even when I had nothing…I had Bucky," he said softly.

 _Yes. He has always been good at that, hasn't he?_

Memories of Yasha tore through her, her mentor, her partner, her lover, her friend. The one who knew her better than anyone anywhere.

 _Now my implacable enemy who knows me not at all…._

She couldn't hide the grimace as the pain she'd been keeping shoved down broke her control at last and washed over her.

 _I'll take this moment and let the pain work, then. I'll give it its due, and after, I will get up and find a way out of this._

She was preparing for that when agent Hill electrified their other guard, helped them to cut a hole through the floor of their prison vehicle, and they were free.

X.

She would not see the Soldier again during that combat. Fury had needed her to infiltrate, and so she'd slipped into a blue-dress disguise and done her part. When she'd seen the massive helicarriers falling from the sky in flames, she'd shoved the part of her that was wailing and screaming deep into an internal prison and turned the key before continuing to do what must be done for the greater good.

When they'd found Steve half-conscious and nearly drowned on the river bank, he'd managed to babble a few words as they transported him to the SHIELD medical facility. As the medical staff had struggled to insert an IV line and put an oxygen mask on him, he'd clutched Sam's hand hard enough that the other man could not suppress a wince, and she'd heard him say, "Sam…he knew me. At the end, Buck _knew me._ He must have." Sam tried to soothe him, calm him, but the wounded soldier continued to struggle. "Buck…saved me." There was a combination of wonder and grief on his bloody face. Then he'd surrendered to his injuries and exhaustion. Sam had raised his head, his eyes finding hers, and she'd simply nodded, the unspoken request granted.

She'd been on a plane the next day headed to Russia. It was time for answers for Steve, for Yasha, for herself. Even for people like them for whom time slid by so much more slowly than others, it was long past time.

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 **Please hit the handy review button and let me know what you think. Side note: I had to watch the bridge battle over and over again to write this. Can I just say watching Bucky kick ass over and over is some of the best research time I've ever spent?**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Y'all say the sweetest things. Thanks for the reviews. And lookit! Another chapter! While I'm still trying to hold with what MCU has as its timeline, I don't want to spend a lot more time "retelling" what they've already established. Expect to see things referenced briefly that I assume you know. In other words, spoilers for everything through CA: CW at this point. This particular piece of the story happens in the interstices between MCU installments.**

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 _Been beat up and battered 'round_

 _Been sent up, and I've been shot down_

 _You're the best thing that I've ever found_

 _Handle me with care_

 _Reputations changeable_

 _Situations tolerable_

 _Baby, you're adorable_

 _Handle me with care_

 _From "Handle Me With Care" – Traveling Wilburys_

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I.

Since Fury was taking his particular show underground for the present and since the burning remains of SHIELD were still collapsing in on themselves, Natasha had a lot of time on her hands while the various government agencies that would try to fill up the huge vacuum all this created jockeyed and fought for power. She'd told Steve that she was looking forward to having all her aliases destroyed, and she'd meant it. While it would make many things more difficult for what she was planning to do next, having all those secrets exposed meant that for at least a little while, she could not be called upon for any covert action by those who were trying to take up the reins. She had rendered herself useless to them, at least temporarily.

The folder of information on Yasha that she'd recovered during her trip to Russia was dutifully handed off to Steve, but she had gone through it repeatedly, made digital copies for herself, and committed most of it to memory. In truth, there was almost nothing inside it that she hadn't known. She hadn't even had to dig very hard to get it. She knew that what was inside was going to rip Steve open, though. The things she had grown up with as a matter of daily life were not going to be things Steve would be able to tolerate happening to his beloved Bucky.

Even as she warned Steve that he might not want to pull on that thread, she and Sam had exchanged another of those speaking glances. As Steve stood transfixed by the small image of his friend Bucky smiling in his army uniform sitting on top of a larger photo of the Winter Soldier frozen in his cryo tank, Natasha and Sam had their moment of silent agreement. In keeping with the exceptional understanding and empathy that made Sam such a natural counselor for other veterans suffering PTSD, Natasha knew that Sam had somehow understood that she was going to look for the Winter Soldier on her own. She didn't know how much of Yasha's importance to her he might have deduced. It was possible he thought she was pursuing the Soldier out of some kind of a need for vengeance or to protect them all, especially Steve, from whatever might happen if the Soldier was recovered by their enemies and sent against them another time. Even if Sam didn't know why she was going, she sensed he understood that she would do all she could to find him. She also knew that he was not going to say anything about it to Steve.

With the delivery of the folder and one last temporary farewell conference with Fury to make sure they could find each other when it was necessary again, her last obligation was fulfilled and she was truly free for the first time in years. Even though SHIELD's collar had been one that she had voluntarily taken and had been proud to wear, it had still had a restrictiveness she was glad to lay aside just now. She knew she would need all her focus to dig the Soldier out of whatever bolthole he'd gone to ground in.

II.

After several false leads, a number of bribes, and one or two spectacularly violent confrontations with people foolish enough to believe she was somehow weakened by the fall of SHIELD, she finally picked up his trail in Germany. She'd not had to work that hard to locate someone in a long, long time.

 _And that just shows that you've gotten sloppy depending on Nick Fury and all his magic toys to do things you should be doing on your own. Time to get back to basics, Black Widow…._

It didn't help that the Soldier was taking extra precautions to cover his tracks, but ultimately, she knew too much about the ways in which he would seek to do that because they were her ways, too. She started with motive. In addition to finding some kind safety for himself that would keep him out of the remnant of Hydra's hands, she also suspected he was after one of two things, information or vengeance, possibly both. That had limited the geographic range of her search. If he was digging for his past, there were only so many places he could start.

The search had ended here, and so now she sat at a little café in a booth at the window, watching the doorway of the apartment building across the street through the window. It was near dusk, and foot traffic along the street had picked up as people coming home from a day's work or heading out for a night's enjoyment mingled. Suddenly, she saw him. Even with his hair pulled back underneath a cap, she would have known him anywhere. Just the way he moved marked him as something other than the milling pedestrians around him. He was carrying a couple of plastic sacks from a nearby market. She noticed that he was wearing a black glove over his titanium hand. As he reached the building, he paused and pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. She watched as he fumbled them and dropped them, and she smiled, leaning back ever so slightly behind the concealing edge of the café's yellow curtains. He grabbed up the keys and then opened the apartment building's lobby doors before slipping inside.

 _So very nicely done, Soldat._

She'd seen him survey the area for anything out of place as he'd bent for his keys. The movement would have looked completely natural to anyone who didn't know better.

 _But we both know that I do, don't we?_

She also knew he'd pause just inside the lobby and pretend to check the mailbox there to see if anyone was following him, would pause again on the landing leading up to his apartment just to be sure nobody was coming in once he was out of the line of sight.

She took another sip of the tea in front of her and savored the blend. When she was done with it, she paid her bill, chatted with the handsome young man at the counter for just a moment, picked up her purchases, and walked back toward the modest hotel where the rest of her equipment was waiting for her.

III.

The café only occupied the first floor of its building. Above it were several floors of offices. She'd carefully scouted the entrances and exits with a quick trip to the ladies' toilet, noting that there was a heavy metal door with a crash bar that led to a common set of stairs opening onto a back alley that could serve as an emergency exit if needed. Later that night, she changed into clothes that would allow her greater movement. She returned to that back alley, spent one brief moment with a lockpick, and she was moving quickly up that stairwell. Before she'd entered, she'd noted that one or two of the offices still had lights on, and she avoided those floors entirely in case a cleaning crew might still be there. Instead, she headed up to the fourth floor, which was completely dark. Another application of the lockpick and two small snips of her wire cutters disabled the alarm and opened the fire door, and she stepped cautiously in.

The building the Soldier had chosen had two apartments on each floor, one to the right and one to the left of a central stairwell. Natasha could see all the windows of the building from this angle, and she began to try to figure out which might be the Soldier's. She ruled out the first-floor apartments instantly. The drapes for both were open and music spilled out into the air from a raucous party that spread across the entire floor. The second floor's right apartment windows showed a young family sitting down to a meal. The second floor's left apartment windows revealed an older man sitting in a chair bathed in the flickering light of a television. Her gaze tracked to the third floor. The right apartment had one room that was well-lit. Flowers lined window boxes attached to the metal pipes that crossed the lower part of the windows to serve as a barricade against things accidentally falling from them and a place for the tenants to dry items or sun bedding.

 _The apartment to the left, though…._

While she could see some light from the interior, it was muted as though it were filtering through more than just the closed curtains.

 _Bingo. He's covered the windows with something. That's got to be the one._

Part of her wanted to break in and confront him, but prudence won out, and she settled in for a vigil.

IV.

Several hours later, the party downstairs was still in full swing. Natasha was amusing herself by watching a little drama that was unfolding there. A young woman had pulled a young man into a room away from the main body of the party and was kissing him passionately. Another young man had shoved open the door just as the young woman had unbuttoned the first one's shirt, and now they were about to fight.

Right before the scorned lover threw a punch at his rival, Natasha saw a dark figure slipping out the door that gave access to the roof and sliding gracefully through the thick shadows across the rooftop. Even though she knew she could not be seen, she froze. She knew the gait; she knew every movement.

 _And here we go._

The dark figure jumped almost casually from the roof of the apartment building to the slightly lower roof of the building beside it and moved toward an exterior metal fire escape that ran down its side. She waited until he was almost all the way down before she moved to follow.

V.

Natasha carefully stalked him to a decrepit military outpost on the far side of town. This city had once sat comfortably inside the borders of East Germany, and there had been a Soviet-built facility of some kind here. It had long since been abandoned and partially demolished. Graffiti provided the only color remaining against the dull gray concrete and the chunks of flaking metal. Only the heavy foundations of what had been some kind of holding tank and a single low bunker still stood behind a tall chain-link fence with rusted razor wire curling across the top. The rest was rubble.

The Soldier had moved unerringly to a place where the fence ran through encroaching underbrush and tangled vines and pulled lightly at the fence. Clearly, he or someone else had been here before and cut the fence so that a gap could be created for easy entry. Natasha watched him slide through and advance to the bunker. He used his shrouded metal arm to pull open a door on the far side, one hard tug making the damaged metal give way instantly. She waited for just a moment. Once she was sure he was within and staying, she slid through the hole in the fence herself.

The bunker had three doors, one at the front facing the road, one leading to a side entrance, and the one the Soldier had used which apparently at one time had provided access to parking lot. Each had a long, slim window to either side. Most of these windows had long since fallen prey to the same well-aimed rocks that had taken out many of the security lights which had once ringed the property, but a few panes of some and shards from the others remained. Natasha was careful not to brush against them or step on any of the glittering pieces that littered the ground around them as she silently positioned herself near one of the windows to see if she could find out what the Soldier had come here for. She gently eased forward and peered in.

He was opening the door of a storage closet when she spotted him. Oddly, he stepped all the way in and closed the door behind him. Minutes ticked by. Decades of training had her holding her position despite this strange turn. Finally, the door opened again, and he emerged, clothing dusty, carrying several large bundles of folders. He knelt and slipped them into the knapsack she'd seen him carrying and stood, adjusting the straps. Behind her, a car turned a corner, and its headlights swept over the bunker. She glanced back over her shoulder and then ignored it since the vehicle was too far away for anyone to see her, but there was the slightest hesitation in his movements.

Her eyes tracked the interior to figure out what had caused it. She saw it, a pane of glass on an old wall frame. It had been unable to protect the document behind it from the ravages of dampness and time, but as it caught the light from outside, it turned into just the right reflective surface to reveal that someone was watching him.

 _Shit. I should have known this was going far too well…_

She was already in motion and taking evasive action when what was left of the window exploded out of its frame behind her.

VI.

She ran full out trying to get as much distance as she could between them.

 _Run like the devil himself is chasing me…and that might not be so far from the truth, these days…_

She cut toward the ruins of the storage tank, looking for cover, looking for anything that might give her an edge so she could make it to the fence and get back into the warren of streets where she could hide. As she changed angles, she glanced back at him. He had closed the distance to an alarming degree, his face the blank mask of a predator on the hunt, his blue-grey eyes stormy and intent.

 _Not your gazelle, Soldat. Time to go._

She pushed for more speed and threw herself up the farthest fragment of the storage tank base, the one nearest the fence. She climbed it effortlessly, hands finding holds in the pocked and painted concrete, flying upwards over the giant red heart proclaiming that DB + HJ = 4EVA. She gained the flat surface where one of the metal supports sat rusting and put it between the two of them momentarily as the best barricade she had in case he was able to throw a blade or fire a weapon.

 _If he were going to do that, though, I think he would already have done it. He seems to be trying to capture me._

 _Is that a good thing or a bad thing, I wonder? Let's not find out…._

Pausing for a moment to get her bearings in preparation for leaping over the fence, she glanced back to see what progress he had made.

He was climbing up behind her, but when their eyes met, she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes followed quickly by something that might have been anger before it was subsumed beneath a cold gaze that promised nothing good when he got his hands on her. His speed increased.

 _Yeah. Really. Let's not find out._

Having picked her path, she turned once more and smiled down at him for just a moment, blowing him a kiss from her fingertips. Then she leaped, sailing over the razor wire, rolling as she came down on the broken pavement beyond, and she came gracefully up into a full run until she was sure she had lost any pursuit in the back alleys of the city.

VII.

The Soldier didn't realize he was being watched until he'd seen just the tiniest portion of the silhouette of her face through the dirty and broken window pane. He had been so careful. He'd watched this place for days. Every bit of training and observation had told him that this place had been abandoned.

He'd only hoped to be able to find the information he knew should be hidden there. He had no idea how thoroughly the Hydra agents who once had used the secret nest under the bunker proper might have cleaned up their files, but he was counting on this place to be like many of the others, a hidden trove of information nobody ever expected anyone to find or understand.

When he'd passed through the double-locking door, opened the secret safe, and seen the mission folders still intact, a deep satisfaction had filled him. He had been stationed here during three major operations. The details of them were horribly fuzzy, filled with the kind of blank spots he knew had been deliberately caused. While he knew he had been here to kill a West German banker, and while he knew he had assassinated the man while he and his family were sitting down to a family meal, he was trying to piece together more. Of the other two jobs, all he could remember was the targets, one of whom he had run off the road in what looked like a drunk-driving accident and the other he had been required to beat to death in what was to appear related to a hit staged over a gambling debt.

In truth, he wanted to know more than just the details of his missions. He'd been free from his handlers' tender mercies for over three months now, and certain things were starting to come back to him, just bits and pieces of things. He was looking for clues about every part of his life. He wanted back everything Hydra had taken from him over and over.

He was also seeking paths to take vengeance for what Hydra had done to him. He had found and destroyed two hold-out Hydra labs he'd known about. He'd just walked in, and they'd come running toward him foolishly believing their malfunctioning Asset had come home. He'd left no one alive and no security footage behind him to correct that assumption for whoever found what was left.

 _There will be nothing to warn them until I show up at their door to give them their turn._

Tonight, the folders he'd found had not only information about his missions and his past, but they also contained the most intriguing list of the former commanders who had been over the Winter Soldier project. When he'd realized what he was looking at, a slow burn of satisfaction had started somewhere deep inside him.

 _My new mission…_

Then he'd come back up through the secret passage that opened in the back of the storage closet, put his treasure in his bag to carry it back to his bolthole, and there had been that face at the window. Even as he was making plans to capture the person it belonged to, something about those features tugged at him. He had no time to consider it, though, because even as he completed his turn toward the problem, he heard a slight exhalation of breath and the slightest scrape of a foot against the gravel outside.

 _She's running._

 _Wait._

 _She?_

How had he known it was a woman? As he burst through the remains of the broken window, that supposition was clearly confirmed. Her skin-tight black suit left little to the imagination as it stretched over her curving figure. The hair that streamed behind her was also a dead giveaway.

She passed from shadow into a patch of light thrown by one of the few working security lights ringing the old station, and he saw that her hair was red. It was as red as…

 _Romanov,_ he thought to himself, her name like a curse. He didn't bother to question why she was here watching him. He just put on more speed in an effort to catch her. _Because unlike last time when we were interrupted, we'll finish this tonight if I can get my hands on her._

If their fight in downtown DC hadn't convinced him before, the speed with which she flew toward the cover of the wrecked storage tank tower would have confirmed it.

 _Just like Rogers, she's some kind of enhanced, too…._

She reached the base of the concrete support and began climbing it with speed and agility. Still, he was gaining on her when she reached the top of the support. When she'd turned and looked at him, he'd felt the impact of her gaze like a physical blow, and just for a second, he'd hesitated. Even later when he went over the moment in his mind again, he couldn't decide what it was about her that had made him slow for that critical second. Something similar had happened before when they were under the bridge in DC, when, instead of taking the shot as he should have, instead of blowing her brains all over the pavement and fulfilling his mission parameters, he'd shot her through the shoulder instead.

 _There is something about her..._

Whatever it was, he didn't like it. It smacked of the types of restrictions and controls that had been built into him by his handlers, those ingrained behaviors that helped them keep him under their heel for so long.

 _It's a weakness, and I will be rid of it. I will be weak for no one anymore…._

He pushed himself forward more urgently only to see her smirk down at him almost like she'd heard those last thoughts. Then she actually blew him a kiss before leaping away. He didn't follow her. When she'd smiled at him and blown that kiss, he felt as though he'd been kicked hard in the chest. He told himself that she had too great a lead and that he had what he'd come for anyway, that escape was his primary priority now. He turned, jumped easily down, and ran toward the motorcycle he had stashed as emergency transport.

It was time to get away from this place.

 _And if she really is following me, I need to put as much distance between us as I can until I can figure out what this effect she has on me is and how to put a stop to it…._

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 **Review, good people.**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: More for you! I think this might be an updating record. Enjoy.**

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 _Is you is or is you ain't my baby?  
The way you're acting lately makes me doubt  
Youse is still my baby, baby  
Seems my flame in your heart's done gone out_

 _A woman is a creature that has always been strange  
Just when you're sure of what you'll find  
She's gone and made a change_

 _Is you is or is you ain't my baby?  
Maybe baby's found somebody new  
Or is my baby still my baby true?_

 _~ "Is You Is or Is You Ain't" – the single version featuring Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters_

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I.

When Natasha located him again, he was far deeper into the old Soviet territory. He was on the outskirts of a large city, had chosen a hiding place in a fringe neighborhood that had clearly at some point been the focus of an economic building boom that had gone bust. Most of the buildings were dated and in disrepair, windows boarded up. Construction on a few had never even been finished, their half completed walls stabbing into the air like broken teeth. The few that were still in use sagged tiredly on their lots.

This place was the end of the local train line. She could hear the clanging of the crossing signals periodically as the tram lumbered in or out of the station, the fuzzy voice through the loudspeakers on the platform announcing that the doors were closing in preparation for departure. She filtered it out along with the other background noise.

She could see the entirety of the Soldier's one-room hideout from her vantage point in the similarly dilapidated building across the street. Although this one had signs warning of its impending demolition, she'd bypassed the bright yellow tape and made her way up the crumbling inner stairs to find an angle she could use to set up her equipment. The small electronic telescope she was using to watch him through the uncovered upper windows of the dingy apartment he was using as his current base revealed every detail as if she had been standing inside with him.

 _Either he's never used this place before or he doesn't plan to be here long because it shows none of the preparation of his last place._

Except for the basic fixtures that came with the apartment – a permanently stained porcelain sink, a tiny two-burner countertop range, a wall-mounted water heater near the kitchen sink that looked like it hadn't functioned in years – the only other things she saw were the table and chair he was currently using and a mattress in the corner with a sleeping bag unrolled atop it. A large backpack sat near it, a heavy coat draped over it.

She'd waited three full days after tracking him here to move any closer than a little hotel across town. In the meantime, she had contented herself with shadowing him from afar. That first day, he'd met a man at a little restaurant, but it had been so tiny that she could think of no way to enter to find out what they were talking about. Although she'd trailed the man back to his home afterward, she could tell nothing about him.

The following day, she'd followed the Soldier to a park and watched as he'd sat on the bench as if he were merely enjoying the clear, cold weather. He'd had a cup of some hot beverage and a book. He sat and sipped, book held in his black-gloved left hand. After about thirty minutes, she saw the man from the restaurant striding down one of the park's sidewalks, head down, a small brown-paper-wrapped package under his arm. He did not look up or acknowledge the Soldier, but when he was past the bench the Soldier sat upon, the man paused and dropped the item into one of the large trash cans.

A few minutes later, the Soldier had checked his watch, sighed, stretched, and stood, slowly ambling toward one of the park exits. As he passed the trash can, she heard a phone ring. He pulled it from his pocket, and put it up his ear, switching the book and the beverage to one hand. He made as if to drop the empty cup into the trashcan, but she saw him drop the book as well. She heard him swear and saw him grab for it, withdraw it, look at it, and shake it slightly. He then tucked it into his pocket and continued to talk into the phone as he headed out of the park, looking completely natural as if nothing had happened.

It had made her smile. _Did anybody else notice that wasn't the same book that fell in?_

He'd been out when she'd set up her equipment here. She'd made sure of it. After their chase a month ago, she'd increased her level of caution when dealing with him. The memory of the cold look in his eyes as he'd climbed up after her felt like an icy finger sliding down her spine. Irritated by her own reaction, she refocused on the vision through the scope.

When he'd returned, he'd pulled a small journal and three file folders from his pack and sat down at the table with them. He'd spent about thirty minutes going through the folders, sorting the information. He took several small photographs out and made a separate pile of them.

 _Memorizing it, just as we were both taught._

Then he'd neatly sorted all the pieces back into their original files, stacked them, and pushed them away, closing his eyes and sitting still for long moments. Eventually, he reached for the journal.

She noticed that he had tabbed the book into several sections with small colored post-it flags. Instantly, she wondered what each section might be for, what the colors might mean. There was a bright blue flag, a red one, one white, one that looked as though it had been colored black with a marker, and a green one marking off the largest section. She pressed an adjustment on the scope, and it zoomed in. There seemed to be symbols or letters on the tabs, but because he was moving the journal, she couldn't see what they were.

He opened the book to the section marked with one of the white tabs, and she saw writing, several sketches, and items he had affixed to the pages. He flipped until he found a new page, and he reached into the smaller knapsack at his feet, the same one he'd carried the night they'd had their chase at the barracks, and pulled out a pen and a small roll of clear tape. He wrote for some time, but the angle was wrong for her to see what he was putting down. Occasionally, he would pause, take one of the photos from the stack he'd made earlier, and tape it down.

Then he turned to the black tab where she could make out a list of some kind. He ran his pen tip lightly down the page before pausing to cross off one…two…items. She could see that several other things had been crossed off in different ink colors before tonight.

When he was done, he flipped to the section in the back tabbed in green. He lifted the pen and began to write. He would put down a few sentences and then pause. His face was filled with intense concentration and not a little frustration. Finally, he shook his head and laid down the pen, staring blankly at the open book in front of him.

A moment later, he flipped to the front of the book, the blue tab opening easily. He lifted an item tucked into the pages, and she was startled to see from the writing and logo on the back that it was a postcard from the Smithsonian exhibition celebrating Captain America and his Howling Commandos. It was creased as though it had been shoved in a pocket before being put in the safety of the notebook. The Soldier turned the card gently in his fingers, staring at the table top in thought. The image of Steve Rogers in all of his red-white-and-blue glory flashed past as the Soldier rotated the postcard.

Natasha sat back for a moment, taking in the new information.

 _And what did he think when he went to see the exhibit? What did he think when he saw himself up there on that huge poster, when he saw his old uniform? When he read the tribute Steve forced them to put in for his lost friend before he would allow his belongings to be used?_

The Soldier continued to sit that way for several minutes before he gently slipped the card back into the journal and flipped to the green tab again. He picked up the pen and wrote without hesitation for perhaps a page before putting the cap back on the pen and placing inside the journal where he'd left off writing before closing the journal and pushing it to the side of the table. He rose, slid the files back into the large pack, put on the heavy coat, grabbed a hat and the lighter knapsack, and headed for the door.

It didn't escape her notice that he'd left one tab untouched.

 _So what's with the red one?_

II.

Part of her insisted that she should follow him.

Another part of her burned to see what was in that journal.

 _Decisions, decisions…_

She tracked him with the scope as he exited the building and walked down the sidewalk. He turned into the little local city train station, and moments later, she saw him duck slightly and enter the rusting bright blue tram that had just arrived.

 _Going into the city center, then._

If she followed him, she'd need to start moving now to be able to have a shot at following the train. Still, that would be difficult to do inconspicuously. She knew he was coming back; something told her we would never have left the journal otherwise. If she stayed, she'd have at least thirty minutes to glean whatever information she could from the apartment.

She stood, folding up her scope and slipping it into her own slim pack. A feline smile curved her lips.

 _Door number one it is._

III.

She circled the building and came up the rusted fire escape that clung tenuously to the back of the building. The bottom ladder made a complaining squeal when she pulled it to start her climb.

 _And we might have to use some of those aerial acrobatics I practiced in my circus days tonight, ladies and gentlemen, if this damn thing comes off the wall. Let's hope this building doesn't ever have to evacuate using this death trap._

Moments later, she was outside his window. She took out a slim tool to flick the lock open, but before she used it, she paused and scanned. Sure enough, so small and innocuous that nobody would notice it, a tiny dangling thread was tucked into the lower corner of the frame. If the window were opened, it would flutter away.

 _And if you hadn't been the one to teach me that particular trick, Yasha, then your alarm system would have worked just fine._

She plucked the thread gently and tucked it into her pocket. Then she opened the window and slid inside.

She was very aware of the countdown timer in her head, and she focused her energy accordingly. She did a quick search of the peeling metal cabinets the sink rested on and found a pistol which she left untouched. Next, she checked the mattress, unsurprised to find a long, black blade slipped into the lining there. The large pack was a trickier matter, but she had been an expert at spycraft for longer than most people had been alive, so delicately she made her way through it.

She extracted the file folders first. There was a mixture of information from agencies spanning several decades and at least five nations. She slipped her phone out and hastily snapped page after page. She'd have time to analyze it all later in her hotel room.

The paperback book from the park was also there. She couldn't help but laugh at the choice of titles. It was a Russian translation of _The Count of Monte Cristo_.

 _Feeling our inner Dantes, are we?_

The book had random highlighting and marks in it as if it had been used for a literature class at some point. It was more than likely a code, but it would take much more time than she had currently to break it. She lifted her phone again and took quick pictures of as many marked pages as she could.

Then there was nothing left but the journal. She turned to the table and looked down at it, memorizing the exact angle where it sat. She felt a strange sense of hesitation suddenly warring with her need to know. Whatever was in there was private and important to him. Curiosity won out. She glanced at the page where the pen had been so she would know where to put it when she was done with the book and laid it aside. Then, unconsciously taking a deep breath as if she were about to dive from a great height, she flicked open the front cover with her fingertip.

IV.

The first page held an inscription in blue ink: "James Buchanan Barnes" followed by a number she recognized as the serial number he'd been issued by the US Army. She lightly ran her gloved fingertip over the name before beginning to turn pages.

The blue-tabbed section came first. She looked at the tattered postcard of Steve, and she was torn between sadness and a kind of joy.

 _Would it make Steve happy or sad to see this? Would it mean something to him to know that his friend went to the exhibition, that he knows Steve remembers him that way?_

She scanned the page that followed, noticing the slant of the handwriting that indicated Yasha had been filling the page quickly at that point. Statistics about Steve he'd no doubt copied right from the museum walls covered the front and back of one page. Several things had a star next to them, the fact that Steve was from Brooklyn, the fact that he'd been transformed by army science, a list of the names of the Howling Commandos that included Yasha's own.

After that, several items that could not have been found in the Smithsonian had been written down more slowly. Different colors of ink indicated that they'd been added at different times. She saw, "Likes to draw, always good at it," "too shy to dance at Amy Cleary's birthday party," "would have died from a chest cold when he was ten if his ma hadn't been a nurse," and "got beat up in the alley behind the Grand four (5?) times."

 _He's remembering. It's starting to come back to him…._

She flipped to the next tab, the white one. Inside were detailed sketches and diagrams of various Hydra instruments and locations. His handwriting switched subtly, and the lettering was mostly Cyrillic instead of English.

 _These were the Winter Soldier's battle plans._

He'd recorded numbers that she didn't recognize. Were they dates? Entry codes? Identification numbers for people? She pondered them briefly, snapped a picture of them and flipped the page to see what the photo he had taped to the other side might be.

 _The chair…._

That creature of her nightmares stared back at her from the small black-and-white photo. She felt her heart racing, and she drew her hand back as if she'd just encountered a venomous serpent.

 _Where did this come from?_

The upper left edges of the photo were slightly charred. What wreckage had he pulled this from?

Her eyes ran across the Russian writing wrapping around the photo. He had listed everything he could remember about the effects of the chair, including a list of five locations, "DC, Moscow, WS base 1, RR mobile base (bank?), Rio." He'd crossed out DC and RR mobile base. She felt a rolling wave of nausea that she battled back.

 _Had there been five of those…those…abominations…made? Five? Were there really three of them still out there?_

She had known that there must have been more than one. After all, when she'd sought him after their encounter over the engineer, she'd found the rusted hulk of one. She'd felt triumph, too, along with the revulsion at seeing the remains of the chair, as if she were standing over the corpse of a long-hated enemy.

 _Foolish not to have realized they must have still had at least one if they still had him under their power._

She glanced down at her watch.

 _You have no time for this now. Depending on what he got on the train to do, he could be back here very soon._

The black tab was exactly what she thought it was, a list. A page and a half were filled with two columns of names. Some of them she recognized; many others were unknown to her entirely. Ranks followed them, and in some cases, numbers or abbreviations she could not decode were there, too. She paused. Two of the names stood out to her as if they had been written in fire, Ivanov and Petrov. It didn't escape her that many of the names had been crossed off. Each that had been scratched out had a date beside it. Seven of the fifteen who were marked through fell within the range of the time since the helicarriers had crashed into the Potomac.

 _Neither Ivanov nor Petrov's names are scratched out, though…_

She snapped a photo as she mulled that information over.

 _Something of a to-do list?_

The green tab was next. She turned the page and readied her camera. As she did, she skimmed the first page, though, and what she saw made her lay the phone down again, forgotten. She grabbed up the little journal in her eagerness to read more. It was all right there, everything he had remembered about his life so far, every question he had, every part of his struggle to find himself.

The language at first was terse, a mission report given to himself, places, actions, results documented with clarity and detail. She pored over his accounts of destroying Hydra bases, tracking down personnel, the search for himself.

After those entries, the language began to change. He had started writing down things he remembered, whatever little bits and pieces came to him. There was a longer account of his visit to the Smithsonian, and her heart bled at the frustration his words revealed at standing there looking at his own past like it belonged to a perfect stranger.

She forced herself to raise the phone again, click the shutter again and again, instead of stopping to continue reading. Some inner instinct was telling her that she didn't have long left before he returned, and she must finish and go. She did not want another confrontation like the one they'd had in Germany.

Refusing to be distracted, she flipped to the last tab in the book, the red one, prepared to record what was there as quickly as she could and get out. What she saw there made the phone tumble out of her hands altogether.

V.

She caught it before it could hit the floor.

 _It's me. It's all…me…_

The first page of this section had a photograph of her taken from a newspaper story that had been written after Loki had tried to use an alien army to spite his brother and take the Earth as his consolation prize. She had no idea where the photographer had even found the courage to step out and get his shot from, but it was one of the more famous images that had come out of that battle. She was standing on top of a car, chaos all around her, Chitauri staff weapon in hand and a look of intense aggression on her face. Blood streaked from her temple where a flying shard of debris had clipped her after a car had blown up close by. Clint was behind her, back to the camera, bow drawn, frozen in the moment before he released the string.

Underneath the photo was her full name, Natalia Alianovna Romanov. Seeing it in the Soldier's handwriting sent another chill down her spine.

 _You have been named. You are known…._

Across from the picture was a page filled with terse Russian. He listed vital statistics and information as if he were creating a dossier on her. Some of the information was startlingly current, but she then she realized it must have come from Pierce when he sent the Soldier to get rid of her. At the bottom, she saw a diagram with her name in the middle. It looked a little like some kind of modified family tree. Branching off above her was Fury's name, and she could see where a date had been erased there.

 _So he knows Nick is alive. Interesting. Can't wait to tell Nick that he's somehow become my father…._

To either side of her, she saw lines linking her name to Clint's, to Steve's, and to Sam's. Each of those had a small question mark beside it.

 _And are these my consorts or my brothers?_

VI.

The next page held a large photo of Steve and her together. She had no idea who had shot it, but she remembered the night it had been taken well.

After that apocalyptic battle, she and the team had gone out at Tony's insistence. He'd dragged them to a club he owned part of, and he'd ordered round after round of drinks for them. He and Pepper had pulled them all out onto the dance floor. Thor had been there with a visiting Jane. Since Bruce had resolutely refused to be pulled from his lab, that left Natasha paired off with Steve. The two of them had sat and watched the others, talking the best they could over the grinding bass.

Tony had been incensed. "I take you two to the hottest club in all of New York, and all you can do is chat? What is this? A knitting circle? I mean, okay, Rogers, you get a pass because you're the Rock of Ages over here and they might not have had dance floors back in your day, but Romanoff? You've got to be kidding me with this. I _know_ you know what to do in a place like this…." He whirled his hand in a gesture that vaguely encompassed the dance floor and the club as a whole.

Pepper had appeared at his shoulder, smiling that patient and apologetic grin that seemed to be her default expression around Tony. "He's really not going to give up, guys. He'd been going on about it for about ten minutes now, and you know how he gets…."

Steve had flashed a glance at Natasha that had managed to be both amused and questioning, and she'd smiled back and shrugged.

"When in Rome…"

"Rome?" yelled Tony, reaching for Natasha's hand to pull her up from the booth. "When the hell were we in Rome? Pepper, did I sleep through Rome? You'd have waked me up for Rome, right?"

Steve took her hand from Tony, and they all headed back the dance floor. Tony pulled Pepper away into the heart of the gyrating bodies content that he had accomplished his goal. Steve paused at the edge and looked at her again, squeezing her hand very gently.

"He made some pretty big assumptions there, Nat. If you don't want to do this, we'll go back and sit down. Tony can just throw whatever temper tantrum he sees fit."

She studied him. He meant exactly what he said. He was such an intriguing contrast in raw power and iron control, in genuine care for the feelings of others and total lack of concern about the critical comments that might be flung his own way.

At that moment, Tony and Pepper floated by again. Tony was chanting, "Dance! Dance! Dance!" while Pepper was trying to get her hand over his mouth to silence him. Natasha pointed at them, brow raised.

"You want to suffer through more of that? Because you know that's probably just his 'low' setting…"

Steve grinned. Not just his usual small, polite smile, but the real one she saw all too rarely.

"One shudders to think." He tilted his head toward the dancers again. "In that case, ma'am? Shall we?"

And they had. Steve might not have known many of the steps to the style of dance being done on that floor, but as Tony had rightly claimed, Natasha knew them all.

 _Let it never be said that Captain America is a slow learner, either._

Whatever Steve had lacked in previous experience, he more than made up for with his serum-enhanced athleticism. Outside her days in the ballet, she had rarely had a partner who could keep up with her. Not only could Steve _move,_ but he was also the perfect gentleman. Despite the close quarters required by the dance style and the crush of bodies surrounding them, his hands never strayed. Even while couples all around them used the music as an excuse to paw at each other, his hands were firm and supportive but never any place they shouldn't be.

She found herself enjoying the evening much more than she had previously expected. She'd really only come out with them to be companionable, team-building as one of this still-awkward band of Avengers. She'd gotten something she had not anticipated. This wasn't dancing to seduce or dancing as a prelude to a kill as she'd done it a million times before. This was just dancing with a skilled partner for the simple joy of it, a feeling she had nearly forgotten.

Steve seemed to be enjoying it, too, laughing whenever he stepped wrong as he was learning, commenting on the wild flailing Tony participated in during his favorite song. Natasha saw Tony make some kind of snide remark to Pepper when he saw them laughing at him followed by a sneaky expression and a whisper in Pepper's ear that had her grabbing at him. Natasha could see Pepper saying, "No, Tony. No…" Tony was smirking and nodding as he disentangled himself from her hands and headed over to the DJ.

"What do you think that's all about?" asked Steve. Then the music changed, and he sighed. "Never mind…."

The distinctive first notes of "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby" flooded the club. Tony's voice came over the sound system.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, for your entertainment, we are proud to offer an exhibition of the type you may never see again!" He sounded like some kind of hellish cross between a televangelist and a circus ringmaster. "All the way from the dawn of time, the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan and his lovely assistant who we'll call…Lola! Lola? Sure. Works for me. Lola! Take it away!"

Everyone was watching them now. She saw a couple of people do a double-take as they recognized exactly who they'd been dancing beside. Steve's hands were still holding her for the dance, but he was glaring daggers at Tony. Natasha watched his jaw clench, and she knew he was moments from walking over to have heated words at best with the slightly drunk genius. She gently squeezed his shoulders to get his attention. He looked down at her with troubled eyes.

"Natasha, I'm sorry…"

She laughed. "Not as sorry as Tony will be when we get done with him later, I promise. For now though, we do seem to be in the spotlight, so…"

He studied her very briefly, and when he saw that she was not uncomfortable with it, she felt him relax slightly. "Alright, then, Lola," he murmured, and then he spun her out to arm's length before reeling her back in.

The crowd had clapped and cheered for them as they moved through the steps of the dance. Even her former ballet partners would not have been able to lift her and swing her with the careless ease Steve used. It made her feel almost like she had sprouted wings and taken flight. When they'd reached the end of the song, he'd dipped her almost all the way back to the floor before pulling her up into a quick hug, the both of them laughing.

They'd left the dance floor leaning on each other, and as they'd passed Tony, Steve had grabbed his arm lightly and said, "Never set a dance challenge for a former glorified chorus girl." Tony had only smirked and nodded.

As they'd sat back down in the booth, Natasha had said, "I'll have you know I was a ballerina."

Steve had just flashed her a truly wicked grin. "Who said I was talking about you? Remember how I got started…"

They'd laughed, and she'd flagged down the waitress to bring her another drink. Then their conversation resumed.

"I'm fairly sure we're trending on YouTube right now, you know. Who knew Captain America could dance like that?"

He picked up his whiskey and took a slow sip, his smile becoming something bittersweet. "Yeah. I never got much practice before, you know, so I guess it was sort of an accidental secret."

This was clearly treading on some memory that hurt him, so she looked for some way to turn it back to the enjoyable evening they'd unexpectedly found themselves having.

"You weren't too sure with the modern stuff, but you sure didn't need my help with that last song," she noted.

His expression changed, and he sat the drink down. "I…uh…sort of had a teacher before you for that." The most fascinating shade of red tipped his ears and started to spread down toward his cheekbones.

"What kind of memory makes a man who served in the army overseas blush? You can't possibly expect me not to dig here, Steve. Give."

He turned the tumbler between fingers. "Well… It was back in Brooklyn, you know. We got to the age where parties were almost always going to involve dancing, I guess we were 13 or 14, and Buck, Buck was absolutely adamant that I wasn't gonna embarrass him by standing around like a chump." His accent changed slightly, Brooklyn creeping back into it as he was pulled back into the past.

"I tried telling him that it was a dumb idea because who was gonna dance with me? I couldn't even run down the block without almost falling over trying to get a breath…I was shorter than almost every other guy and most every girl, too, but Buck, once he got an idea in his head, there was nothing in the world but that, you know?"

 _Yes. I know. I remember what that was like…._

She nodded but said nothing, the story filled with an exquisite mixture of pain and wonder as Steve unknowingly laid out this little slice of Yasha's past.

"Well, I could stumble and fall down just walking across the smooth kitchen floor, but Buck could really move. All the girls wanted to dance with him. He decided the thing to do was to teach me himself, so he borrowed his sister's records and dragged me into his living room and put me through the steps over and over until I could at least move my feet in time. You shoulda heard his sister laughing at us. She kept telling us what a cute couple we made. He finally got so sore he threw one of the couch cushions at her, and the next thing I knew, they were brawling. One of them bumped the record player, scratched up the record, and almost tipped the entire thing over. Their ma came out and chewed us all out. That was the end of my dance training."

He laughed sheepishly, and she laughed with him.

"Well, you did credit to it tonight."

He dropped his eyes, and his smile regained that sad edge. "Yeah. Buck would have been amazed."

 _And proud. I think he would have been so proud._

She wanted to say it so badly, wanted to make this connection with him over the person they'd both lost. She couldn't say it, though, so she covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently. He looked up at her, and their conversation passed to other topics. Eventually, Thor came back to the table with a giggling Tony draped over his shoulder.

"I am certain that this one has had too much of that weak ale they serve here," Thor said, resolutely ignoring the fact that Tony chose that moment to reach down and squeeze Thor's backside while singing, "Like a rock!" Pepper grabbed both Tony's hands, trying to get him to quieten down, but he wouldn't stop saying, "But LOOK at it, Pepper! Look!"

They'd gathered their things and headed back to Stark's tower after that.

She hadn't thought about that night in a long time, not until just now when she was seeing a photo of her hugging Steve from the end of that dance. He'd just pulled her back up from that last dip, and her leg was still raised for counterbalance, curving near his hip. Underneath it was written, "Lovers?"

VII.

Frustration welled inside her. Part of her wanted to scream, _No, you idiot. And shouldn't you know better?_

But that was unfair, really. Certainly, that question had been asked by others in the time she'd been working with Steve Rogers. He was a good man to be sure, a tremendous and trustworthy ally, and he was physically one of the most beautiful people she'd seen in a very long time, but…

 _It would be like…like…sleeping with my brother, if I had one, I think…._

Mentally flipping all of them the bird, she turned the page to make the image and the assumption written with it go away. She thought she had had her fair share of surprises for the day, but what she saw there made her sit down on the stained and peeling linoleum tile with the book. The photograph page from one of her old passports had been taped there. The paper was water-stained and brittle-yellow with age, but the typed birthdate was still completely legible: September 3, 1928.

In the margin of the page that remained, he'd written only one thing: "HYDRA."

For a long time, all she could do was look at that fragment of her past and that boldly-written, utterly certain label. It had been her first passport, issued to her just before she'd been sent on that first mission to kill the ambassador in Paris. While her looks had not changed much thanks to the serum, there was still something in her eyes then that she no longer saw now when she looked into a mirror. She stroked the page lightly.

 _He knows. He knows my greatest secret. Where did he even find this? I thought it had been destroyed… But….wait… he thinks….he thinks I'm Hydra?_

It wouldn't register. Of all the conclusions she had expected him to jump to, of all the things he might have thought about her based on their previous experience, what would make him think she was Hydra?

Then the anger rose inside her. How dare he of all people misunderstand her so completely? How was it even possible? A small, feral smile twisted her mouth and replaced the hurt that had been in her expression only moments before, and she reached into a pouch on her belt and withdrew a pen with bright red ink.

VIII.

When the Soldier returned, he checked the little markers he'd left along the stairs and around his door, and, satisfied that no one had passed that way since he left, he eased into the apartment, hand on the concealed blade hidden in the lining of his coat. Such behavior was simply routine for him. He didn't know the last time he had entered a room not expecting to be attacked.

 _Those who do not take steps to ensure that they survive don't manage to do that very long in my world…._

He quickly surveyed the room as he stepped in. Everything was in its place. He crossed to the window.

 _Latched, and there is my tell-tale thread. Good._

He put the bag he'd brought back with him containing the simple meal of fruit, cheese, and bread on the counter next to the sink. Next, he stripped off the heavy coat and turned to place it on his large pack, glancing at the journal on the table briefly.

Then he froze. The black blade was in his hand so quickly it looked as though he had called it from thin air.

 _I left that pen in the green-tabbed section so I could pick up again when I returned. Now it is most decidedly in the red…._

He edged to the table and used the tip of the blade to flip open the journal. His eyes scanned it for just a moment, and he cursed.

She'd crossed out his "HYDRA" repeatedly in ink the color of fresh blood. Next to it, she'd drawn a small red stick man. It had a frowning face, wild hair, and an exaggeratedly muscular left arm with a large star on it. She'd written "IDIOT?" in Russian with an arrow pointing to the stick man. The insult was clear. On the facing page she'd continued, "Clearly, there's some kind of misunderstanding here. We should talk. Border castle ruins museum at midnight." Beneath it was a bright red lip print where she had kissed the page before closing the book and leaving her challenge for him to find.

For a moment, emotions raged within him, fury that someone had invaded his personal memories in such a way, fear that even now a team was moving to capture him and drag him back to Hydra's loving embrace, a grudging admiration for the audacity this woman had to break into his hideout and leave such a message, and over the top of all of it, a strange desire to see her face-to-face.

 _I should just go. I should grab everything and go now. This location is compromised. Surely they will be coming for me now._

That red writing and the imprint of that red, red mouth seemed to laugh at him, though. A voice he did not know floated up to him from the depths of his fractured memories, " _You are still a dour donkey much of the time, Soldat…."_

Something inside him stirred sluggishly at that, and ripples of memory he could not understand or retain washed over him. All he knew is that she was a part of them, somehow.

 _On the other hand, perhaps she is right. Maybe it is time for this little spider and I to know each other better._

He ran his gloved fingertip gently along the bottom curve of the lip print, careful not to brush the actual lipstick she'd used to make the mark.

 _Then let midnight come. If it is a trap, she will die or I will. And if it is not, maybe there will be some answers after all._

* * *

 **Bucky's journals have fascinated me for a long time. I couldn't resist the chance to explore what he might keep in them other than Steve. As for the prolonged memory of the dance club, I blame Tony for that, too. He seemed to want his moment. I hope you liked this section. REVIEW!**


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reviewing. I appreciate your patience with my "taking the slow road" to get there. On we go.**

* * *

 _You live in a church_

 _Where you sleep with voodoo dolls_

 _And you won't give up the search_

 _For the ghosts in the halls_

 _You wear sandals in the snow_

 _And a smile that won't wash away_

 _Can you look out the window_

 _Without your shadow getting in the way?_

 _You're so beautiful_

 _With an edge and charm_

 _But so careful_

 _When I'm in your arms_

 _'Cause you're working_

 _Building a mystery_

 _Holding on and holding it in_

 _Yeah you're working_

 _Building a mystery_

 _And choosing so carefully_

 _~ "Building a Mystery" – Sarah McLachlan_

* * *

I.

The city's clock tower could be heard striking in the distance. Natasha felt the curl of excitement that had been slowly building since she'd read the Soldier's journals twist sharply.

 _Now we'll see if he's coming out to play._

After the briefest of stop-overs at her hotel room to gather the gear she'd need for the night's work, she'd come directly here after leaving her message at his apartment. Deep down, she knew he would not be able to resist the temptation to chase her, and she'd wanted to make sure the playing field was hers this time.

She'd already scouted these ruins online two days ago, partially as a way to pass the time while she was following him and partially because it was always nice to have an isolated location handy for certain situations.

 _Like a body dump. Or an ambush. Or a place far, far outside of town to meet with my former partner and lover who has tried to kill me twice now…._

Instead of coming in the tour entrance, she'd slipped through the gated employee lot and come through the back gaining instant access to parts of the castle complex not open to the gawking, picture-taking groups who had milled about until the park's close at sunset. By that point, Natasha set up her observation point in this mostly intact corner tower.

Her perch gave her an uninterrupted view of the entire place except for the area just in front of the barbican. At sunset, the park's employees had dutifully cranked down the huge metal teeth of the original portcullis, so she was not worried about someone coming in that way.

 _Unless he's suddenly gained the ability to fly or to pass through solid walls, I should be able to see him no matter which way he approaches._

The last sonorous chime had faded away when the Soldier walked boldly into the moon-silvered grassy space where the castle's bailey had one been. He was wearing the long, dark coat Natasha had seen earlier, and she had to wonder just exactly what he might have hidden underneath it.

 _I also have to wonder just how he got here since I didn't see him on any of the approaches. Maybe he_ has _learned to go through walls now…_

He crossed to one of the picnic tables the park service had installed near the closed museum store and sat astride one of the benches, a position that was deceptively casual.

 _Ah, but I know exactly how fast he can get up from there and start wreaking havoc, don't I?_

He reached into the depths of his coat, and she instinctively tightened her hand on the hilt of one of her pistols. What he pulled out, however, was an innocuous-looking, dark brown file folder. He held it up, turning it so she could see how thick it was, and then he dropped it on the table beside him with a slap that echoed through the still night.

"Yours," he said in Russian, waving his hand over it as if he were offering it. His voice was soft, conversational as if he were speaking to someone sitting at the table with him, but her enhanced hearing picked it up with no trouble.

 _Mine? From where? Is this where the passport photo came from? Where have you been digging, Yasha?_

Almost as if he'd heard her thoughts, he continued. "It wasn't easy to get, I'll give you that. The KGB had buried the information deeply. You must have been important to them." He paused briefly. "Or perhaps you are still to those who once pulled their strings…."

She stiffened a little at the implication. Rising into a crouch, she slipped along behind the broken parapet walk wall until she reached a place that was directly in front of where he was sitting. As she'd seen him do so often, as he'd trained her, she stepped lightly off the edge and dropped, striding out of her landing as if she'd done no more than descending the last step of a staircase instead of dropping some three stories straight down.

He watched her impassively as she walked toward him. Only his left hand moved, curling into a loose fist where it rested against his thigh. Other than that small movement, he gave no sign that he was ill at ease or that he recognized her at all. She stopped halfway across the bailey, and they stared at each other in the moonlight.

After another moment, he sighed. "I thought you wanted to set things straight. I don't think either of us is here to enjoy the moonlight and the history."

 _No. No, I am definitely not enjoying the history right now. That's one hundred percent certain._

"You're wrong about me."

He tilted his head, a tiny smile curving one side of his mouth. "Of course I am." His tone was amused, sarcastic. He slowly moved his right hand until it rested on top of the folder.

His meaning was not lost on her. He didn't believe her because of what he'd read in that file.

 _But what was it? How complete was it? What did he know? What in it had led him to think she was Hydra?_

He stood suddenly, and she moved her hands closer to her weapons. He made no step toward her, but he did scoop up the file. His voice cut through her uncertainty. "Either commit to this moment or run away again, Black Widow. I'm tired of waiting."

He turned and walked toward the entrance to the chapel, which was in the corner tower nearest the barbican, pushing the door open and disappearing inside.

II.

When nothing else happened, she chastised herself and walked toward the open door. Security lights stayed on in this part of the castle all night, their dim illumination not much brighter than the candles once used here might have been. Above, the remnants of a dark celestial blue sky sparkled with a tiny piece of gold leaf here or there that might have been stars once. Angels with no faces or with only one wing wheeled there, too.

He was standing near one of the narrow stained glass windows set deep into the curving tower walls. The moonlight was bright enough that faint traces of color dotted his face, casting half of his beautiful features in a deep blue. Enveloped in that great coat, long hair slightly mussed from the wind outside, he looked like he might be one of the injured angels stepped down from above to bring her some message.

She scanned the rest of the room. The folder lay squarely in the middle of the bare wood altar. Her eyes flicked back to him. He had shifted slightly, moved to lean against the other side of the window as she walked down the aisle toward the folder, and the color painting his face from the window shifted to a disturbing crimson.

 _Or perhaps not an angel from_ above _at all…_

She reached the folder, flipping it open with her fingertip. Her name and one of the many, many identification numbers they had given her during her decades with the KGB were written neatly on the cover in ink that was only slightly faded with time. A small, square photo of her in her KGB dress uniform was fastened there as well as one of her in one of her ballet costumes taken during a performance at some point.

"Now you will tell me that this is some distant family member of yours, that it is your grandmother or your great aunt, and that the family resemblance is shocking. That you have been mistaken for her before."

He had not moved. She turned away from the folder to consider him.

"Is that what I'm going to tell you?"

He pushed away from the wall and walked slowly around the perimeter of the room toward the door. She instantly began scanning for other escape routes. There was a staircase that ran up to the ancient wooden choir loft, but there was no exit from there that would not land her back in this same place. The windows had been built for strategic defense and were not wide enough for her to squeeze through even if they hadn't been filled with the stained glass panels and the heavy, reinforced glass on the outside that was designed to protect them. He was cutting her off from the only exit.

She tracked his movements fully, watching without giving any sign of alarm as he pushed the heavy door closed and lifted an old-fashioned wooden bar and dropped it in the waiting brackets. When that was done, he turned to her, stormy eyes focused as he stalked forward with that same measured pace.

He paused at the front pew. Perhaps twenty feet separated them. Slowly, he removed the black coat and laid it on the pew. He was wearing the full tactical gear of the Winter Soldier minus the muzzle mask and goggles she'd seen him in during their bridge battle. The supple black armor jacket that had been a part of his gear for as long as she had known him wrapped his powerful torso, weapons tucked into every slot and pocket. Knives were strapped to his strong thighs along with a pair of pistols. His silver arm gleamed in the warm light.

 _And there he is…. James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Yasha._

She nodded slightly to the door. "Feel better now? Safer?"

"As if one can feel safer with you, Black Widow," he murmured.

She smiled again. "That's rich coming from the man who shot me twice and chased me across a ruined military base."

Something troubled flickered in his expression, but he didn't pursue it.

"The message you left said that there were misunderstandings between us."

He flexed his left hand into a fist, the same gesture she'd seen him make earlier, but now that his arm was bare, she heard the plates slither softly. It was almost as if he were daring her to react, daring her to attack or run. Instead, she hopped up to perch on the altar next to the folder of information.

"Yes. I hope you liked the drawing. Art was never my forte." She looked down at the folder and skimmed her fingertips across the photograph of her in the ballet costume. "At least not that type of art…"

"What is it you think I have misunderstood about you, Agent Romanov?"

"More things that I have time to set you straight on before this place opens tomorrow morning and people are very concerned to find the chapel locked from within, I'd guess."

The flicker of a smile, as indulgent and dangerous as the one a crocodile gives its prey. "Then why don't you get to the most urgent matters. Just so we don't delay the first tour of the day."

"Okay. You think I'm Hydra. I'd like to know why."

He gave her a look that said she was either crazy or deliberately obtuse before nodding sharply at the folder.

"Because I can read."

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she finally skimmed the first few documents. In addition to the passport he'd taken the page in his journal from, several other versions were inside it, showing different birthdays, different birth cities but always the same face. Nothing changed except for the hairstyles and the growing cynicism in her eyes. Seeing these photos all together like this for the first time, it was striking. Along with her IDs were pages and pages of stripped down mission reports filed by her and by various commanders. She glanced at them but didn't take the time to read them deeply before closing the folder, tapping her finger on it.

"How does any of this make me Hydra?"

"You are like me. You don't age. You were sent out to kill and steal and sow the seeds of destruction."

"None of this is a secret. I was an agent, and I did what I was told. I have worked hard since then to try to atone for some of it."

"You were an Asset. There is no atonement possible." His tone was hard, cruel. Again, she heard that slithering of titanium plates.

"I was never willingly or knowingly a tool of Hydra. Knowing what I know now, I can see their hand in the KGB just as they had their dirty fingers in so much of what SHIELD did, but I was never theirs. They did not make me."

"No? How is your shoulder these days? Does it ache when the weather changes? Does the scar ever pain you?"

"You know there is no scar."

A knife appeared in his left hand with that magical speed he always had. Even as she was tensing herself to evade whatever was coming next, he pulled the blade lightly across the flesh of his right palm. Blood welled and dripped to the stone floor. She forced herself not to move as he made a fist for a moment and then opened the hand wide to her. The thin slash was closing as she watched.

"Yes," he murmured, never looking away from her. "I know there is no scar. No matter how great the wound, there is no scar to show for it, isn't that right? They even erase the history from our very skin and bones…."

"Soldat," she whispered.

He jerked as though she had shocked him with one of her Widow's Bites, and his eyes narrowed. "What did you call me?"

She bit her bottom lip in hesitation. "Soldat," she said again, louder this time.

"Why that?"

"Because it is what I called you first."

He laughed harshly.

"You say it like it's meant to be an endearment."

"It was. It _is_."

"No. That is what _they_ called me. Every single time. When they dragged me out of the cold, out of the dark, when they put me in the chair and fried my brain and said their words and took away my world, that is what _they_ called me before they sent me out to kill and destroy. Every…single…time…."

"I gave you other names, too. Do you remember them? You didn't like them very much."

She slipped off the altar and took a small step forward. He backed away in equal measure.

He bared his teeth at her in a grimace. "Stop talking. You won't trigger me. I won't be used again. I'll kill you first."

"I called you Lovkij."

Another step. Another retreat.

"And Tin Man."

"I said stop."

"And I called you Eeyore because you were a dour donkey sometimes."

She stepped forward again. He threw the knife, and it buried itself in the wooden back of the pew just beside her.

"Stop," he whispered.

"But when we knew each other best, I called you Yasha."

He stumbled, going down to his knees, hand raised as if to hold her off.

She took another small step toward him, but she did not reach to touch him as she wanted so much to do. This was the closest they had been to one another in ages without trying to harm one another. This was the closest she'd been to him since the night she had pressed the muzzle of her gun to his side and pulled the trigger, ripping them apart.

"Hydra didn't make me, Yasha. _You_ did. You were my teacher, my partner, and later my friend and my lover. I'm not their Asset. I'm yours. Just as you were mine. Don't you…don't you remember at all?"

She reached her hand out, unable to resist. She lightly touched his outstretched palm and felt a rush of satisfaction when he slowly twined his fingers with hers. He was staring at her with wide eyes as if she were a miracle or a curse, his breath coming in short panting bursts, and she closed the last of the distance between them, reaching for him with her other hand, intending to touch his face, to comfort him somehow if she could.

His head tilted suddenly, and his expression changed. Even as she registered it, his fingers closed vice-like on her own, and she felt a sharp sting of pain in her side. She looked down to see a tranquilizer bolt protruding from her lower abdomen. He'd stuck her with it with one sharp motion of his left hand while she was distracted. She tried to break free, but the combination of his strength and whatever he'd put in the bolt prevented her from doing more than a futile tugging.

"Yasha…" she gasped.

"I'm sorry, but I just don't believe you."

"The files..." she murmured. "It's in the files. It has to be. You trained me in the Red Room. We were partners after for years. It must all be there."

"Oh, it's all there," he said bitterly as he rose. She was the one falling to her knees now.

"No," she slurred.

He was standing over her now, that big black coat belling out around him like dark wings as he swung it back on, and she was falling, falling….

"Something about you keeps making me hesitate," she heard him say, but the world was so far away. "Whatever it is, I will figure it out. It doesn't matter now, anyway. I have you and you won't finish whatever your mission. I'll keep him safe this time…." His voice was in her ear, and she had the oddest sensation of movement.

 _Him? Who?_

Above her, the broken blue sky was spinning and the wounded angels danced.

 _Am I flying, too? But I don't have even one wing…_

Then there was darkness.

III.

She woke up in stages. Her instinctive response when she was able to move was to grab for a weapon, but her uniform was gone, a set of soft black pants and a sweatshirt with the logo of the border castle museum replacing it.

 _And all of my weapons, too. Clever Yasha. Did you enjoy it, though?_

She took stock of her surroundings. She was in a cell. The only entrance was a huge, heavy wooden door. The hinges and metal work on it were old but thick and strong. Light flickered in from somewhere outside through a heavy grille near the top of the door providing enough illumination for her to make out rough rock walls marred by various crude carvings. Wherever he'd taken her, this was the genuine article, not some hastily constructed thing. She scanned the walls again. Given the dates she was seeing, she was not the first person to be imprisoned here. One carving read, "Johannes Marten, 1575." She shivered.

 _Maybe not even the fifty-first person if that's real…_

She pulled herself up and slowly paced the tiny cell trying to get the pins-and-needles sensation completely worked out of her limbs.

"I swear to whatever gods there are that the next person who drugs me is going to wear his intestines as a festive garland around his neck," she growled as her stomach turned over. She rested her head against the cold stone despite its roughness, taking deep breaths as her body fought the after-effects of whatever he had injected her with.

She wasn't quite sure what made her turn back to the door suddenly. It wasn't a sound. It was more of a feeling. Sure enough, though, there he was staring at her through the grille.

"Yasha," she said softly, still leaning against the wall but turning to face him.

"Don't call me that."

Suddenly too tired even to lean, she folded down to sit cross-legged on the stone floor. "What do you want me to call you, then? Not Soldat. Not Yasha. You want me to go back to Tin Man?"

"Why do you have to call me anything?"

"What, I'm supposed to just yell, 'Hey, you'? Or would you prefer me to use some of the other names for you I have floating around in my head right now? They're not very nice…"

He smirked slightly. "It's not like there's anybody else around to answer you, doll. Knock yourself out."

She sighed. "Why am I in here, 'you'?"

"Because I need answers."

"I tried to give them to you, but you didn't seem to like them."

Again, that bitter little smile. "Yeah. I guess I've just had too much experience with things that seem one way on the surface but are another thing altogether underneath."

"I didn't lie to you, Yasha," she said, irritation in her tone even though she was trying to hide it.

"And I should believe you just like that," he said, ignoring her use of the name.

"No, you should have believed me because of the documents in the file. Did you not read them all?"

"I read enough."

There was a long moment of silence, and then a sigh.

"What you call me and why really doesn't matter. That's not what I need answers to."

She refused to rise to the bait, staring down at the floor instead.

"What I need to know is why Hydra has positioned you so close to Steve Rogers."

IV.

Her head snapped up in spite of her best intentions.

"WHAT?" she yelled, her voice echoing in the narrow confines of the stone chamber, and she jumped to her feet again and lunged closer to the grille.

His gaze was cold, but his tone was mild, reasonable. "It will be much easier if you just tell me. You know I have the skill set necessary to _make_ you tell me…."

She sputtered, "You think I'd, that I'm, that Steve is…."

That wintery smile was back again. "What a beautiful rendition of innocent outrage! Nicely done. Let me guess. You'd never hurt Steve because now _you love him_ , right?"

She ground her teeth and pulled her self-control back together. Her face smoothed as she took a step away.

"Steve is my teammate and one of maybe four people on earth I actually consider to be my friend. He is practically my brother."

The Soldier slid a piece of paper through a crack in the door. On the page, she saw the photo of them dancing in Tony's New York club he had a copy of in his journal, and another of Steve and her intertwined on the escalator of that mall in Virginia, the kiss she'd pulled him into the keep Rumlow's strike team from identifying them. The grainy quality of the image indicated it had come from the mall's security feed, but it was undeniably them. Her arm was around his neck, her hand pressed to the back of his neck, fingers threaded in the hair beneath his cap to keep him kissing her in case he balked, but it looked like an act of passion instead, and his hands had moved from the instinctive and alarmed grasp he'd started with when she surprised him with the kiss to something much more like a lover's embrace, one large hand splayed low on her back to lift her slightly.

"Yeah. Looks very 'brotherly' to me…."

She opened her mouth to reply, but then she stopped and shook her head.

"Nothing I say is going to convince you," she said softly.

"No."

"Why? Why won't you listen…"

"Because you were born to lie. Because you do it as often and as naturally as the next guy takes a breath. Because you've been doing it for close to a century, just like me." He paused, looked down and to the side, and two pages stapled together were suddenly shoved through the crack in the door. "Because you did it _to me_ , and I wound up back in hell for more than fifty years and almost killed my best friend…."

She automatically grabbed the papers as they came through the door and tore her eyes away from his furious gaze to look down. She read the first few words and a noise of distress escaped her.

"Yes," he growled.

The first page was a letter of commendation on formal letterhead from the director of the KGB to Mother for the role her agent, Natalia Alianovna Romanov, had played in recovering the Asset. What followed was a mission report she did not remember giving or signing detailing the events of that last night in the warehouse. Although Ivanov and Petrov were briefly mentioned, none of the horrors they had put her through were described. From what was on the page, it looked as though she had willingly collaborated to entrap him.

"Yasha," she cried, lunging up to the door and striking it with her fist. "This isn't the way it was! This isn't all of it!"

There was no answer. He was gone. She sat down in the corner of the cell and pulled her knees up, continuing to read.

V.

At some point, she must have dropped off to sleep, but a sound woke her up. It was a small noise of distress, a breath drawn in as if a person were in pain. It was repeated. Then she heard him whisper, "No…no." There was a sound of metal against stone, and his voice came again, louder this time. "No….stop! You can't… not you…Natasha…they can't have you…" That sound of metal against stone came again, and she heard the sound of movement.

"Yasha?" she called hesitantly.

The sounds stopped immediately. Then, a moment later his face appeared in the grille of the door. She thought he looked somewhat paler than usual.

"Something you need, agent?"

She studied him for a moment. _Yes. He's shaken about something…._

"Are you…what happened?"

He shrugged and looked down. "A dream….a memory. Nothing to concern you."

"What was it about?"

His lips twisted into a hard smirk. "Nothing nice, doll."

She licked her lips and decided to ask, "I…heard my name?"

The little smile fell away, and he met her gaze directly. For just a moment before he masked it, she saw a flicker of pain there.

"I guess you probably did. You were the star of the show."

"What was I…"

"It's all muddled. I was trying to rescue you from something. You had just kissed me, and then you had a gun to my side and were pulling the trigger…."

Her eyes closed as the pain of the memory and everything associated with it flooded over the walls she usually kept wrapped around it.

"Ah, I see you remember it, too…"

"It wasn't like that, Yasha."

"Are you admitting that you did it?"

"I never said that I didn't."

"Answer the damn question straight. Can't you just answer it straight?"

He turned away, running his hand through his hair as if frustrated.

"Yes. Yes, okay? I did. I helped the KGB reclaim you."

He made a low noise of satisfaction, but he didn't turn back.

"But you don't know why," she continued, scooping up the papers from the cell floor and shaking them at him. "These don't tell the _why_. I didn't do it because I wanted to, Yasha. I swear. I would never have hurt you."

"Oh, I know, I know," he mocked. "Because we were… _lovers_ …." He twisted the word, made it filthy. He spun back to the door, pressed close again. "And how many of your other _lovers_ did you put in their graves, _Black Widow_? Do you even remember the number anymore, or did your headboard get so full of notches you just ballpark it these days?"

She pushed herself to her feet and stalked over to press her face as close to his as she could get it with the grille between them. Her fingernails curved into the wood.

"I'm not going to debase what I know we _both_ felt by running it through this ringer even one second longer."

"Really? Anger? That training of yours must be slipping. Maybe you need a Red Room refresher course. This is the classic moment when you want to play the wounded flower sympathy card, try to evoke my inner protector instinct. Come on. Turn those big green eyes on me full of tears and beg me to listen because we _loved each other so much."_ A scraping sound came from his side of the door, and she knew it was the bite of titanium fingertips against the weathered oak.

It struck her that except for the barrier of the door, they would be pressed chest-to-chest and palm-to-palm. _Too much._ She took two steps back, moving as far as the tiny cell would allow, and sat down with her back to the grille.

"I'm done talking to you about this right now."

She heard an electronic notification chime from somewhere outside the cell, and she heard him turn toward it.

"Saved by the bell. Don't think this conversation is over, Natalia. I will get the information I'm after, one way or the other. If you know me as well as you keep claiming, you know I won't stop."

His footsteps faded away, and she shivered.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Such sweet reviewers, even despite my evil** cliffhangering **. (Is that a word? Let's make that a word.) Oh, and my little children, here there be monsters. Tread lightly.**

* * *

 _Come, come one, come all,_

 _You must be this tall_

 _To ride this ride at the carnival_

 _Oh, come, take my hand_

 _And run through playland_

 _So high, too high at the carnival_

 _This horse is too slow,_

 _We're always this close,_

 _Almost, almost, we're a freakshow_

 _Right, right when I'm near,_

 _It's like you disappeared,_

 _Where'd you go? My dear, you're a freakshow!_

 _And it's all fun and games,_

 _'Til somebody falls in love,_

 _But you've already bought a ticket,_

 _And there's no turning back now_

 _Round and round like a horse on a carousel, we go,_

 _Will I catch up to love? I could never tell, I know,_

 _Chasing after you is like a fairytale, but I,_

 _Feel like I'm glued on tight to this carousel_

 _Why did you steal my cotton candy heart?_

 _You threw it in this damn coin slot,_

 _And now I'm stuck, I'm stuck_

 _Riding, riding, riding_

 _~ from "Carousel" by Melanie Martinez_

* * *

I.

His dreams were always a chaotic hell when the effects of a reset started to wear off, filled with fragments of atrocities he could seldom trace, and worse, had little idea if they were created from real events or were only the product of his battered mind. After the helicarriers had crashed, that last incorrectly performed reset Pierce had ordered had numbed him for longer than usual, but eventually, like unwelcome guests, the dreams showed up.

 _And that is the only good thing about being reset. For a little while, when I close my eyes, there is just nothing there but white noise and emptiness instead of…._

He shuddered.

Some of them were old standards, demons he'd carted around with him so long they were almost normal to him. He unwillingly flew through the air toward a streak of black, he fell endlessly through the air, and a ripping pain burned through his left bicep, he woke with a smiling little egg-shaped man telling him he was the new Fist of Hydra. He was chained down on a cold bed and a man brought out the tiniest saw he'd ever seen and started slowly cutting through his arm, whistling a jaunty little tune while the Soldier screamed and begged. He was immersed in bright blue fire, unrestrained but unable to move as every cell flamed up until nothing was left of him but ashes and bones that somehow still were alive and aware. He lay on a cold, snowy hill staring through the scope on his rifle, he saw a movement in the trees, he pulled the trigger, and Steve stumbled out before him, a gaping red hole in his chest where the white star of his uniform had been moments before, hands reaching for the Soldier and disappointment and accusation in his fading gaze. The Soldier stood in the center of a huge red room with no doors or windows, its walls covered in a slow, endless cascade of blood, and from the darkened boundaries, countless numbers of corpses shuffled forward, all pointing an accusing finger at him until they reached him and pulled him down, tearing and ripping.

All these were expected fare, reruns he knew by heart. Slowly, though, she had somehow crept into his nightly torment as well. She bothered him. Romanov bothered him. Since the day he'd begun putting together his notebook and taped in that photo of her and Steve dancing, he'd had dreams about her, too.

At first, all he remembered of her presence in the dreams was that she had been in that shifting horror show he sank into every night, one of a cast of thousands. After that night he'd chased her across the ruined compound and she'd blown him that kiss, things had escalated.

One night's dreaming had offered him a tableau in which she was only a child, her face lovely with the promise of the woman she would become, but fragile and far too small to be standing up against him in that perfectly-poised combat stance. Although he had tried everything in his power to stop it, he had watched like a passenger in his own body as he'd broken every bone in hers with gruesome thoroughness and artistry before drawing one of his black blades and cutting her throat, leaving her a wide-eyed and bleeding corpse on the mat. A ring of faceless people in uniforms surrounding them had clapped wildly and thrown red roses while one tall man with medals on his chest had dipped a champagne glass into the pool of her blood and toasted the Soldier with it before drinking deeply.

Still another dream had her all grown up and undressing while he watched her through the scope of his rifle. She was with another man, but her eyes were fixed on him as she unbuttoned her formal military jacket, as she straddled the man's lap and his greedy hands groped at her pale skin. She'd continued to stare up at him while she rocked her hips on the man's lap, grinding even as the man fumbled with the fastenings of her skirt. The Soldier saw her lips part, the tip of her tongue slide across them in invitation, and then she'd slipped off the man and taken one crucial step to the side to let the garment slither down her legs to the floor. The Soldier had pulled the trigger and blown the man's head off, blood spattering her body. She'd smiled at him and winked as the gore had dripped, and then she'd been standing right in front of him on top of that roof, the distance between them magically gone. She had cupped his cheek with her blood-covered hand, and he'd turned his face into it, kissing it blood and all as if no caress could be sweeter.

Another night, another variation, and he was fighting her hand-to-hand in a room filled with wooden crates. Her moves were flawless, everything every other opponent was not, until the violence became a form of dance. He caught her wrist and pulled her hard against him, and then he was devouring her as they tumbled to the floor pulling at each other's garments with the same frenzy they'd just used to throw punches. The sounds of her enthusiastic response were still in his ears when he woke hard and hurting, cursing himself and her both.

Another had her center stage in a huge, ornate theater, spinning and leaping in a white confection of a costume spangled with shiny red stars, and some faceless man was lifting her over his head while Tchaikovsky played in the background. In the dream, the Soldier had felt pride watching her, in her grace, her strength, her beauty, but then the dream shifted subtly, and when the man lifting her lowered her slowly back to her own feet, he had morphed into Steve. He pulled her body flush with his, hands stroking down her lithe form in an open caress as the music became the bass-heavy thump of a dance club standard. Instead of the rigid precision and separation of ballet moves, they were now pressed against each other hip-to-hip, moving with liquid ease to the beat. Steve had nuzzled her neck, cupped her breast through the leotard she wore, and the stars on it faded from red to blue as she gasped and shivered, twining around Steve's now uniform-clad body just before he'd lowered his head for a kiss. The Soldier had awakened with a shout, jealousy he didn't understand and self-hatred for it running through him.

In another with hazy edges, they fought under a bridge, cars whizzing past above and honking. He pinned her roughly to a car with his titanium hand wrapped around her throat. Her hands clawed at his wrist to dislodge it, but, for no reason he could fathom, instead of finishing the fight, he leaned down and kissed her. For a moment, she returned it. Aching happiness raced through him like some kind of electrical storm. Then she went still beneath him, and he looked down to see that silver fist had somehow tightened on its own and broken her neck. He released her, and she slid to the ground, dead eyes still staring at him.

Then there was the one that always began with the tinkling notes from a music box, the song resolving itself into a slightly-off-key rendition of the Soviet national anthem. She was on a stage again and he with her, but this was a shabby theater, moth-eaten and smudged curtains sagging to the sides. Bright red cords were affixed to them both at wrist, elbow, neck, and thigh. Tears were streaming down her face as he saw the cords tug, pulling her into a graceless parody of ballet. She was saying something, but he couldn't hear it over the music. He wanted to go to her, but the cords that bound him would not allow him to move. Suddenly, his own strings were pulled, and he found himself dragged forward toward her, dancing brokenly with her. A laxness on the string allowed him to look up, and above them holding their operating crosses was a horribly smiling little man with shiny silver glasses. Then the man was pulling her straight up, and she was screaming as she disappeared, limbs twisting at unnatural angles. He heard the smiling little man laughing as his own strings thickened and began pulling in different directions until he felt his body rip apart.

The worst dream of all, though, was the one he'd had again for what felt like the hundredth time, the one her voice had called him from. It started out differently every time, but sooner or later, it always came around to the same theme. He walked into a room filled with mirrors which shifted constantly. In the dream, he knew he was looking for something important, something vital, even, and he walked forward despite the glittering shifting terrain. Sometimes he caught sight of a flash of it, something red that led him forward. He'd finally smashed out with his titanium fist, yelling, and the mirrors had all shattered into silver sand leaving nothing between him and…her. She was bloodied and bruised, and that same hunched little man from the marionette dream stood over her, his glasses like intact pieces of the mirrors the Soldier had just destroyed. He had her head pulled back by her red hair, a knife to her throat. The Soldier roared and lunged, burying knife after knife in the little man's chest. Then he'd gone and lifted her gently, stroked her hair back to look in her eyes only to feel pain rip through his body as she shot him with a gun he hadn't seen. Her laughter blended with the laughter of the little man with the glasses who rose and removed a knife from his chest. He handed it to her and withdrew another for himself. The two of them had hacked at the Soldier again and again until he woke screaming.

Such was the dream she'd pulled him from for their last confrontation. The lingering traces of it had felt like a coating of blood from an arterial spray, and some part of him wanted nothing more than to go to the showers down the hall and scrub until it was gone. He was not used to such luxuries, even when he was actually plastered with blood and gore from the kill, so he had dragged himself to the door of the cell and forced away the memory of the blades piercing his body again and again.

II.

As he walked away from the cell door after, the Soldier reflected on the events of the past twenty-four hours with a mixture of satisfaction and cold fury.

 _She thought she picked a place where she would have the upper hand. Little did she know that this is where I've been digging for the past three days._

Under the ruins of the border castle was a series of tunnels, and the KGB had taken the pre-existing structure and made an observation post long ago. It had not been operational for many years as the need to expand it had never arisen. The former prison cells where the border lords' prisoners had been left to suffer and fade were now full of records that he had come here to find.

As for how he'd slipped in without her seeing him, the walls were riddled with secret passages if one knew where to look, and thanks to the nervous man Natasha had seen him with in town and the secret instructions he'd encoded in that copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , the Soldier had known exactly where he needed to look. The man was a local historian and the son of a low-level KGB officer who had worked in the base when it was functional. Once he had the information, the Soldier had used a tunnel that opened into a cave near the pitiful apartment building he'd holed up in to travel unseen from town to the ruin. An access code he'd found in a folder in Germany had allowed him to open the heavy metal bunker door at the end of it and proceed to this dusty room where he'd set up his main operation. From there, he'd used another to enter the bailey for their meeting.

Natasha was right that he had neither been at the little apartment long nor intended to stay there again. He'd only used it long enough to make contact with his source. As he had done so long ago in that town by the Black Sea, he had set up his real base here with extra equipment, food, communications gear….

 _And even a quaint little guest room._

His smirk at the thought faded.

 _If only the guest were a little more cooperative._

He meant what he said. He would do what he had to in order to get the information about the threat to Steve.

 _And even though she is born of the same forces that forged me, everybody has a breaking point._

That truth had been indelibly etched into his mind, body, and soul over and over across decades, after all…

He didn't want to break her, though. He could not understand why. What she had done to him marked her as his enemy and a dangerous one at that. However, even after he'd read the report where she had detailed her role in his capture over and over, even after he'd read how she had been sent to work as a double agent, his mind shied away from it, making little deals with him. _It would be better to talk with her more first. Maybe there was a way to gain her trust. As long as I can keep her here, whatever the plot was had to be on hold. Maybe it won't be necessary to…._

He cut that little voice off in midsentence.

 _We both know that it will be whatever it is. When the time comes, I'll deal with it one way or the other._

He reached the end of this corridor of cells and came into the main round room, other clusters of cells branching off in six other directions like spokes from this central hub.

The notification chime that had ended their confrontation had indicated that the Widow's phone had received an incoming message. The Soldier had cloned it after he took it off her with the rest of her equipment, and he had the information from it running on the computer system he'd set up in this abandoned command center.

Sitting down on the rolling stool in front of the laptop he was using, he tapped the touchpad and the screen blinked back on to show what had come in. As if fate just couldn't stop laughing at him, the message was from Steve.

 **New lead. Could use some help w/Russian & internal KGB lingo. **

_Lead on what? On who? What was Steve doing that required someone who knew about the KGB? Was this part of the plot Romanov was involved with somehow? Was she leading him into a trap?_

He stared at it for a long time, trying to decide what to do. He'd have to respond somehow. If Romanov went completely radio silent, would Steve come looking for her? Were they that involved? He hadn't been able to tell from the texts between them he'd read. They wrote little, neither seeming to prefer that method of communication except when necessary.

The piece of the dream where he'd been hunting for her came again, and with it, the needling little voice reminded him that he'd been willing to do anything to find her, and that had only been a dream….

He ignored the voice, typed a brief response that matched her terse texting style, and sent it.

 **Tied up right now. Need 2 days to finish this.**

His lips quirked at the irony of the phrasing, but tension slowly spiraled inside as he waited for a response.

A moment later, the reply came in.

 **OK. ETA Moscow for S & me 6 h. We'll get started. Usual place. **

He'd just written to Steve for the first time in more than sixty years. He sat gazing at the reply on the screen contemplating that sliver of contact with his friend, wishing somehow that it could have been honest, the two of them talking without any kind of subterfuge, that it would be him, Bucky, who would be heading to Moscow to help out. Then a coldness spread through him as the Soldier subsumed everything else.

 _Since I can't have that, I will have to do whatever I can from here._

He looked at the corridor that stretched immediately in front of him, the one he'd found an old medical station set up in, complete with all the things he would need to get information from his reluctant guest.

 _48 hours. More than enough time._

III.

Natasha had gone over and over the two pages, and she'd formulated a plan of attack. She had laid out an argument she was sure he couldn't resist. Several hours had gone by, and the Soldier hadn't returned. Instead, she'd heard the sound of movement and the screeching scrape of something heavy and metallic being dragged across the stone floor followed by the sound of a drill and pounding, but he hadn't appeared at her door.

She had no idea what time it might be. In this windowless place, she had no clues about day or night. She was tired, but it was bearable, certainly not the longest she'd been without sleep and nowhere near the least comfortable she'd ever been.

She wanted to see him again, though, talk to him.

 _Even if it's just to fight. Why doesn't he come back?_

As if summoned by her thoughts, he was suddenly outside the door. She heard the click of a key in the lock and the scream of resisting rusted metal as the seldom-used tumblers gave way. The door slowly opened inward, and he stood in the doorway. The source of the light was behind him, and it cast his expression in shadows. Something about his bearing unnerved her, but she refused to allow herself to show it.

"Come here," he said softly, his voice flat, absent of any emotion. He held his hand out. A pair of metal cuffs dangled.

She ran her current options. She could try to attack him, but he was still wearing his armor and she had no weapons at all. She didn't know where she was, and she didn't think she could evade him in any case in such close quarters, so running was out as well, at least for the present. If she could get out of this tiny cell, perhaps some of these variables would change somehow. Therefore, she did the only thing she could do. She raised her chin and looked at him in defiance, holding out her wrists for the cuffs.

III.

He pulled her down the hallway through a high-ceilinged open space. She saw a laptop and connected to it was…

… _my phone!_

She knew better than to pause or let on that she'd seen it, so she kept moving, but a little ripple of hope floated through her.

 _If my phone is there, surely the rest of my gear…my weapons…must be around, too._

She began working on a plan as he turned her down another of the branching corridors, scanning everything she saw to look for some kind of advantage. Several of the doors were closed, but ahead, one stood open to her right. They stopped outside it, and she looked in. Suddenly, the noises she'd heard earlier made sense. A heavy metal operating table had been dragged into the center of the room, black streaks showing its unwilling journey from its former position. It had been affixed to the rock floor with bolts as thick as her thumbs to prevent it from moving. At each of the four corners of the table, holes had been drilled and thick metal restraints had been attached. A rolling equipment tray sat to the side, almost like it was an afterthought, but she saw the glittering of sharp metal there as well.

She closed her eyes and took a slow, quiet breath.

 _Does Yasha have in him what it takes to use that setup? No. But this is not your Yasha now, little girl... Mother warned you. Petrov told you. This is the Winter Soldier. This man most definitely has it in him…just as you do…._

While the pause seemed endless, only enough time for the Soldier to open the other door had passed. He pulled her inside what seemed to be the canteen for the little facility, a single metal table and several sturdy metal chairs surrounded by kitchen equipment including an ancient, grumpily purring, round-shouldered refrigerator. He pulled her steadily to one of the chairs directly across from the open door and pulled it out, brow raised.

With the same grace and unconcern she would have shown at a five-star restaurant, she sat down and waited while he rearranged the cuffs so that only one of her hands was fastened to the chair. All the while, she studied the room with the table across the hall.

He walked over to the little stove and retrieved a kettle. Two mugs already rested on the table. They were silent while he poured the water into the heavy white teapot so the tea could steep. While they waited, he got out a loaf of bread, some white cheese from the refrigerator, and a dish of olives. When he poured her a mug and slid it across the table to her, she wrapped her hand around it, but she didn't sip.

A flicker of a smile traced his lips, and he reached for her mug, his fingers brushing hers as he took it, lifted it, and drank before returning it to her and taking up his own again.

She lifted it to her mouth and took the tiniest of swallows. Then she nodded at the room across the hall.

"Dinner and a show?"

He shrugged, tore off a hunk of bread and put it on a small plate.

"Eat, little widow. You will need your strength."

He bit into his own bread and watched her.

She laughed. "Could you be more clichéd? I mean, I know they messed with your memory, but I've seen cartoon characters more original that this, Yasha…. 'You will need your strength'…." She said the last with an exaggerated accent and snorted.

His expression didn't change. "You may be right. Don't worry, though. In matters where I bother to be creative, I can assure you I'm one of a kind."

 _It could have been a come-on line, especially with that dark, smoldering stare. But it isn't. It isn't…._

He produced one of those ever-present black blades, and she refused to flinch, watching warily as he sliced off some of the cheese and added a portion to their plates. His slight smile told her he was aware the situation was starting to get to her, that he was starting to get to her. The knife disappeared again, and he gestured. "Eat."

She lifted the bread and tasted it. It was good, fresh, and somehow that detail was too much. She put it back down. He rose, went to the cupboard, and brought back a jar of some kind of jelly. He offered it to her, and she shook her head. He spread some of it on his own bread and took another bite.

"What are we doing here?"

He chewed and swallowed before answering her. "We are sharing a meal. I am providing you the best I have, which probably isn't as fancy as you're used to working with Stark. I'd apologize for that, but, well…" He gestured around at their surroundings. "After we are done, I am going to ask you a few questions. Hopefully, you will see the wisdom of cooperating with me and we can continue this pleasant conversation here over tea. However," he paused to sip his tea, eyes never shifting from hers, "one way or the other, you will tell me what I need to know to protect Steve."

She smiled, a beautiful and luscious curving of the lips, propping her chin on the curled fingers of her free hand, elbow on the table, leaning forward slightly as if she were on a date and going to tell him a flirtatious secret. "Do you know what happened to the last man who tied me to a chair and told me he was going to torture me?"

An answering smile every bit as wicked as her own spread across his mouth. "Nothing good, I'm sure."

"I suppose strictly speaking it isn't polite dinner conversation," she demurred, leaning back again and tucking her hair behind her ear. "Suffice it to say, the very last thing he ever saw was the error of his ways."

The Soldier nodded as he rose. "Think you'll get to show me the same thing?" he asked softly, menacingly as he came around behind her chair.

"Oh," she purred, "I'm absolutely _counting_ on it…"

She waited until he was immediately behind her, and she took a deep breath, bracing her feet. When he bent slightly, she grabbed the seat of the metal chair, stood and shoved back hard. The cuff she'd unlocked by using a tine of the bendable little fork he'd laid out for the olives while he was getting the jam from the cabinet earlier clattered to the floor as she slammed him against the rocky wall with all her strength.

Then she turned, shifting her grip on the chair and lifting it before hitting him with it as hard as she could. The chair folded in on itself from the impact as he fell, stunned.

She was already running.

* * *

 **Cliffhangerizing like a boss... (ducks to avoid thrown objects)**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: I love y'all, thrown tables and all. To all the new folks who are now along for the ride, as Bette D. says, "Fasten your seatbelts." I'm trying to finish up this one last segment of the megaupdate to keep everyone from hating me. After this, my posting pace will slow back down as life intrudes. On we go. R &R.**

* * *

 _You've got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend_

 _When I was down you just stood there grinnin'_

 _You've got a lotta nerve to say you got a helping hand to lend_

 _You just want to be on the side that's winnin'_

 _You say I let you down, ya know it's not like that_

 _If you're so hurt, why then don't you show it?_

 _You say you've lost your faith, but that's not where it's at_

 _You have no faith to lose, and ya know it_

 _~ from "Positively 4_ _th_ _Street" by the exquisite Bob Dylan_

I.

Even as hard as she'd hit him, she had no confidence he would be down long, so every second had to count. She flew through the corridor toward the hub where she'd seen her phone. When she reached it, she scooped up the device and looked around. None of her other gear was visible, but what she saw in one of the half-opened drawers of the desk the computer was on made a savage little smile snake across her lips.

Hearing the first sounds of stirring from the room down the hall, she grabbed the two items from the drawer and quickly surveyed her options. Six corridors faced her. She knew which one she'd just come from, and she remembered which one her cell had been down.

 _So that just leaves those four._

Just then the mangled remains of the metal chair she'd hit him with flew all the way across the hall, smashing into the far wall of the room where he'd set up his interrogation equipment with a sound like a car wreck.

 _Ah, yeah. So he's up, and the correct answer is as far away from that as I can get, then…._

She turned for one and raced down it, not seeing the silver hand that gripped the canteen door facing or the bloody face of the Soldier that emerged right behind it.

II.

He watched her go, swiping blood out of his eye with the back of his hand. Even as fury at her attack rippled through him, something else in him also felt pride.

 _You underestimated her again, and she handed you your ass._

A voice trickled down to him from memory, "Cause and effect…you left the opening…"

 _Her voice. Where did that come from?_

He staggered a little, shook his head, and headed for the tunnel she'd chosen.

 _Let's hope you enjoyed your moment of triumph, then, little widow, because now you get to find out what's behind door number three…_

III.

The first few rooms along this corridor were larger than her prison cell had been, each containing a metal bed and a tall metal locker, obviously the quarters for the base's staff. She briefly considered hiding in one of the lockers, but she kept going, hoping for a better place of concealment.

The tunnel twisted on, and she passed what appeared to be the commander's office, a large metal tank desk and several obsolete pieces of electronics sitting forlornly inside.

As she ran, a nagging thought kept eating at her.

 _I don't hear anything behind me. *Why* don't I hear anything behind me?_

She'd expected him to chase her and to fight her. Maybe he'd taken the wrong tunnel?

 _A girl can hope, can't she?_

Ahead of her, the corridor ended, dumping into a larger chamber. Hoping for an exit or better cover, she pushed forward. The space she entered was one of the natural cave pockets the KGB had connected its post to at some point. The ceiling curved up into darkness above her, too far away for the lightbulbs strung along the walls to illuminate. Stalactites and stalagmites had met here and there, creating solid columns here and there. Between and around them, crates stenciled with various KGB and military insignia were stacked. To one side, twenty filing cabinets of various colors and heights stood like an uneven staircase. Near them, another large tank desk sat, an old wooden rolling chair behind it. Stacks of papers had been arranged on top of a large table that had been dragged beside the desk, and she knew that had to be the work of the Soldier. It seemed he'd also moved one of the beds from the staff quarters down the hall in. The sleeping bag she'd seen in his apartment earlier was now unrolled on it.

What she didn't see was any exit from this chamber other than the door she'd come through initially, a thought that she processed just as she heard a klaxon blare followed by the sound of badly greased gears turning and a set of hollow metal booms. Then all the lights went out.

IV.

She swore in four languages as she raced for where she remembered the desk to be, using it as a platform to leap up onto the filing cabinets behind. The cave darkness was so completely thick that she could not see anything, and she'd slightly misjudged her distance, her landing making the metal cabinets clang together slightly. Then she made herself perfectly still and worked on bringing her panting breaths under control.

From somewhere back down the tunnel, there was a hum and a click, and a dim, slowly pulsing red illumination filtered in along with his voice, "Now… How does that rhyme go again?"

 _He's activated some kind of emergency protocol this base must have._

"Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly…" There was the sound of metal against stone, and she could almost see him dragging the tips of his left hand down the walls of the corridor as he came.

She ran everything she could remember about the layout of the cavern through her mind frantically as the voice grew closer, switched into Russian.

"Except it seems we have this situation reversed somehow, no?"

His voice was almost at the door.

"Do you like my parlor, little spider?"

The red light throbbed on, and for a second, she saw his silhouette in the doorway. Then the light cycled off again.

"I hope so because you're going to be here for a long, long time…."

V.

She pressed herself against the walls. The darkness should shield her here while she came up with a plan. Realistically, she wasn't sure exactly what she was going to do. The sounds she'd heard earlier suggested he had somehow closed off this part of the tunnel. If that were true, she had no idea how long it would take her to override the system or find some other way out, especially if he were stalking her at the same time.

She could only see intermittently as the red light gave its dull pulse. She timed it this time, counting silently in her head. On for three seconds….off for five seconds…

 _Okay. Okay. I need to use every available moment I can to scan for him and figure out some way to set a trap._

She laid her hands gently on the pockets of the black pants she wore, comforted just a little by the feel of the items she had there.

VI.

Of all the places she could have run, this was the best as far as he was concerned. He knew there was no exit except for the main door, and he'd sealed the corridor's access back to the main hub with one of the codes his research had yielded. All he had to do now was go in and get her.

Something about this situation felt eerily familiar to him, this hunting her in the darkness, an instance of that déjà vu that he had long ago learned to be wary of since it usually preceded some kind of incident that would lead to him being strapped into the cold metal chair and wiped.

When the emergency light blinked off, he slid in and took a position behind a crate near the door where he was sure he could not be seen and listened. Was that the slightest brush of skin on metal? Had it come from near the desk? Suddenly, it was like his vision blurred even though darkness surrounded him, and he was in two places at once…

 _He was stalking her among the boxes and crates. Little did she know he could see everything because of the goggles he'd hidden. Even without them, he already knew where she would go. A smile quirked his lips as he headed up, up, knowing she'd try to get as far away from where she thought he was as she could. He dropped to a crouch and watched her slipping effortlessly up the column, watching her strong arms and legs wrap around it as she pulled herself up. She was moving right toward him, a secret little smile on that mouth he'd started to hunger for. Oh, how he was enjoying this game…_

The light flared back into life, and the memory released him, leaving him shaken. He tightened his grip on the corner of the crate slightly. Refocusing, he skimmed the shadows near the desk. Yes. He could see her now, red hair and white skin in stark contrast to the dark stone behind her. She was gathering herself to move when the light cycled off again. Now that he knew where to look, she was easy to find.

When the light was gone, he heard a whisper of noise, and he rose to intercept. Over half a century of specialized combat made him accurate with his lunge. He heard her startled gasp as his hand wrapped around her wrist, and the light flared again, revealing her face, eyes wide with fear.

A little smile of triumph and an echo of that earlier memory curled his lips as he pulled her closer. "Hello, little spider," he murmured. She was shaking as he drew her to him. Then he felt a sharp stabbing in his thigh, and her body steadied, her expression changed as she pushed him away.

"Hello yourself, asshole…."

He grabbed for her again, but suddenly his aim was bad. The ground seemed to buck and roll beneath his feet, and he staggered in the dark. The light pulsed again, just as she connected with a round-house kick to his head and dropped him into a heap on the cold cave floor.

VII.

Even having used the same type of tranquilizer dart on him that he had on her and following it up with a brutal kick, she really had no idea how long it would keep him down, so she started working as soon as she was sure he was really out. She lifted him into a fireman's carry and moved him over to the bed.

She pulled and tugged at his jacket, quickly stripping it and all the weapons it held out of his reach and tossing them behind her. Likewise, she unfastened the long blades and pistols from his powerful legs before pulling his boots and the many, many little toys he had hidden in them away. She pushed him hard enough to roll him over, looking for the sheathed blade she knew he always wore strapped beneath his clothing and added it to the pile. Still worried about how quickly he could shake the damage, she drew the second item out of her pocket, another pair of the same restraints he'd used on her earlier. She'd lifted them from the drawer in the command center along with the dart she'd used to surprise him.

She pulled his hands through the heavy bed frame and added the cuffs. Realistically, she knew his titanium arm could rip through them. She'd seen him use it to tear through items much more solid.

 _However…._ She checked the pistol she'd taken from him, popping out the magazine out of habit to check it before snapping it back in place… _This should be a much more useful deterrent._

The red light flared just then, washing over his face, and her heart hurt a little just looking at him, his beloved face still now in unconsciousness, innocent and peaceful as it never was when he was awake.

 _Speaking of which…_

She rose and went to the desk, finding the lamp she'd seen there by touch first, and then rapidly finding the switch as the red emergency light cycled. She pulled the little chain, and to her surprise, warm light spilled from under the round metal shade.

She took the pile of weapons, selected three or four other items from it, and carried the rest to the room just beyond the cave, shoving them in the tall metal locker there. Then she hurried back, grabbed the wooden chair and rolled it toward the bed where she'd bound him.

 _And now, Yasha, we will indeed have our long-awaited conversation. I just don't think it's going to go exactly like you planned, love…_

VIII.

He came awake in stages. His head was pounding.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Feels like I was kicked through a wall by a government mule…"

A small snort came from somewhere near his feet.

"No. Just a government ballerina."

He tried to shift so he could look at her, but nausea rolled through him, forcing him to stop moving, close his eyes, and swallow as the pain clawed at him. After a few moments, it passed and he opened his eyes again.

She had not moved. She was still sitting on that rolling wooden chair, legs loosely crossed, arms folded, looking for all the world as if there were nowhere more comfortable to be. He didn't miss the pistol in her hand though, and he couldn't quite resist the little smile that crept to his lips.

"That," he said, his voice still slightly unsteady, "was a dirty trick."

She shrugged. "You'd know…"

Silence fell between them. The little clicks of the switches in the red lights and the far away sound of dripping water were the only noises now.

His head continued to clear, and he flexed his hands a little, lightly testing the bonds she'd placed him in. He wasn't ready to break them now, but soon….soon…

"So what now? Are your masters on the way to get me again?"

She looked at him for a moment and shook her head. "You really are a stubborn idiot, sometimes, you know?"

He said nothing, and they stared at each other in a small battle of wills. Finally, she sighed.

"Nobody's coming. I haven't even notified my team about this yet although I could have." She waved the phone at him and stuffed it back into her pocket. "We need a little time together, you and I, time where neither of us can run so we can get some things ironed out."

He laughed but stopped abruptly because it hurt. "Still trying to sway me with your stories and charm?"

She rolled her eyes. "Still refusing to listen to the truth?" And she ran her hand through her hair briefly, pushing back the tumbling fall.

Something about the gesture was familiar, so very, very familiar. Where had he seen her like that?

 _She was standing on a stone patio, the Bosphorus that glorious blue behind her, the afternoon sun setting her hair aflame, and they were listening to someone yelling inside. Just like that, the very same movement, she had run her hand through her hair before turning to him, worry in her eyes. He had reached for her and folded her in his arms because that was the only thing left he could do, the only thing he had left to give that was still his own. He couldn't tell her that...that…._

He drew an unsteady breath, and the memory shivered, disappeared.

 _Real or not real?_

She studied him, seemed to be trying to come to some kind of decision.

"Okay. I'm not good at this, so I'm just diving in. I'll figure it out as we go along, maybe."

Still trying to sort through the fragment of his past that had returned to him, he didn't respond.

"I did betray you to the KGB back then, but Yasha, I had no choice. Ivanov and Petrov…they…they did things… I don't remember all of them, but…"

She stopped, and he watched her face turn the color of chalk.

 _He was dragged into a room with a thick set of bars separating him from the main chamber and dropped like a sack of trash. He was still too weak from their last session with him to do more than slump there, somehow grateful for the smooth cold surface beneath him because it helped to dull some of the worst of the pain from the still-healing breaks in his femurs and the still-knitting slashes that had opened his abdomen so his torturers could dandle their fingers inside him and paint designs on him in his own blood. Part of him was screaming that he had to get up, had to rip through these bars, but his battered body refused to obey. A session in the chair hadn't been enough to completely remove his memories this time, but Petrov had told him it would be different this time, that they would proceed in stages to ensure he could remember nothing that interfered with his mission functionality. Even though the process was not complete, it was at the point that it took a moment before he could understand what was happening next._

 _Then the door had opened, and they'd dragged her in. She was only half covered in a hospital gown that slipped over one pale shoulder. Bruises covered the skin of her arms and legs, and when the technicians grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back, her face and neck, her shoulder were a multi-colored nightmare, too. She'd tried feebly to push them away, but they'd injected her with something, and she'd only been able to groan as they'd placed her in the chair, fastening the restraints._

 _Petrov had appeared in his field of vision, bending down and blocking her momentarily. "See? We are taking care of her just as I told you. I promised you we were giving her equal attention. Lest you doubt me, watch!"_

 _And her body had thrashed as the metal hands rotated down and the current hit, both of them screaming._

"What did you drug me with, woman?" he growled, moving in the restraints again.

She narrowed her eyes and her fingers shifted on the pistol's grip.

"The same crap you used on me, Yasha. It was a dart I found in the drawer in the central hub."

He shook his head slightly, wincing as the action brought pain.

"It can't have been. That was just a simple sedative, a knock-out dose."

"And you're saying what I used on you wasn't? Why?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then he looked away from her, refusing to speak further, refusing to admit that whatever she'd given him was affecting his mind this way.

After another pause, she continued her story. "As I was saying, I…I don't remember it all, but sometime during that time, you managed to escape. I read Carter's files later after I came to SHIELD, and she said you refused to leave without me, that you planned a rescue."

 _He was staring down at a plan of the sublevels of the old bank, and Carter and Stark were at the other side of the table. More men in green uniforms were milling about, but the serious strategy was being developed here._

" _Don't you think they know we're coming?" Carter asked._

 _Stark had snorted, "Probably not, since only a fool would try to go back in there after we barely made it out with our lives the first time…."_

 _The Soldier had not responded, making a notation on the diagram. He wished they would just shut up so he could think. It was hard enough with the unbearable layers of guilt that were wrapped around his mind like lead gauze._

 _She trusted me. She trusted me and she loved me and I delivered her to their hands…._

"Stop," he snarled, unable to keep the slightest note of desperation out of his voice. He pulled hard against the cuffs, and he felt the metal catch, begin to yield…

"Yasha," she said, and he looked at her again. She had the pistol pointed directly at him. "I don't want to hurt you again, but you need to stop trying to get free and listen. You need to know the truth…"

 _And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free… make you free… But freedom's just another illusion, isn't it? It's just not seeing the leash on your choke chain for a little while…it's pretending you own your body, your mind, your past, your actions…the truth shall make you free…isn't that the prettiest lie?_

He let his body go limp as an onslaught of images suddenly tumbled through his head like an upturned box of photographs cascading endlessly over him. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control, trying to make it stop, but that made her voice inescapable.

"They must have known that you were coming back for me, so they…they…conditioned me…so I could be both the bait and the trap." She stood again and walked a couple of steps away as if she could not stand to be so close to him. "I didn't know any of it until Fury and some SHIELD psychologists helped me recover the memories, but…Yasha…they had me fight and kill probably fifteen men dressed up like you. It was an everyday thing. They'd put me in...in the chair. They'd shoot me full of drugs and they'd bring me to a room with him and have me rip him to pieces. Over and over. Over and over."

She turned back to him, and he saw tears in her eyes.

"So when you came into the warehouse, it was already routine. Some part of me was screaming, but I couldn't stop. It's what they wanted me to do."

 _He was sitting on the soft couch in the room Bradley Moore had made his office. On this day, the day before they were supposed to finally get to something like safety, he'd been restrained by three soldiers while Petrov had muttered the words that controlled him at the core level of his mind, and then he sat as he'd been ordered while Petrov injected him with something, while Moore and Petrov argued._

" _It's going to look awfully damned suspicious if they disappear in transit, Petrov. None of this can come back on me. I still have other parts of this mission to clean up, and that won't be possible from Leavenworth."_

 _Petrov had smirked, his hand coming up to stroke the Soldier's short hair like an owner absently patting an obedient dog. "Who would suspect you? After all, you've been housing two of the most treacherous and dangerous KGB operatives ever encountered. Who knows what those wily Russians are capable of, no?"_

" _You're going to have to drug me, too. There is no help for it. And command will know if you try to pull any fast switches. Make sure you gauge that dose so it's not lethal."_

 _Petrov had looked affronted. "You doubt my skills as a chemist?"_

" _I doubt your skills as a human being."_

 _Petrov had given that oily smile, the light reflecting off his little round glasses before he'd turned back to the Soldier._

" _What about him," Bradley asked. "How closely do we need to be watching him? Are you sure he isn't going to make trouble for us?"_

 _Petrov had smoothed the Soldier's hair one last time. "Him? Oh, no. The Asset is going to do exactly what he's been told…"_

 _The scene shifted, and he watching Natasha drink from the tainted champagne flute, watching her body go limp, watching her eyes fill with fear and accusation, watching himself rise and gather her up, watching himself fasten her bonds, watching himself deliver them both back into the hands of their masters, their creators, their destroyers…._

"Stop," he yelled, "Oh God, make it stop!" And his left arm flexed, tearing through the cuff like it was a link in a child's paper chain.

IX.

She scrambled back as he ripped through the restraints and hurled himself out of the bed, falling onto his hands and knees. Instead of attacking her, though, to her surprise, he was violently ill, throwing up again and again.

She kept the pistol pointed at him.

 _What the hell is this? Is it a ploy? Is he having some kind of reaction to the dart? Was it not really a tranquilizer? It looked just like the one he used on me…._

His big body shuddered and he made a wretched sound as he rolled away from the pool of his vomit and into a fetal ball.

"Yasha," she murmured. He made no response. As she watched, a fine tremor started in his muscles increasing until she could hear his teeth chattering.

 _This is no act._

She tucked the pistol into her pocket and knelt beside him.

"Yasha," she said more loudly. "Tell me what's wrong. Let me help you." She laid her hand on his shoulder.

"No!" he yelled, suddenly dragging himself up and scrambling away from her to lean against one of the crates. "No. Don't…don't touch me… Can't touch me after I…" His face was wet with tears, and she saw him swallow rapidly, trying to keep from being ill again. He continued to shake.

She didn't try to follow him this time.

"It's okay. It's okay, Yasha. I won't touch you. I won't come any nearer than this."

His eyes flicked to hers and then away.

"I'm just going to sit right here with you for a minute. Is this okay?" she murmured.

He didn't reply, but he didn't try to move away from her again, either. His chest heaved like he had just run a marathon.

"Are you in pain?"

He laughed, a horrible broken sound. "Does it look like I'm doing good over here, doll?"

"What hurts?"

He pulled his knees up to his chest, his trembling hands coming up to cover his face.

"Everything. Every damn thing."

She edged closer, and like a flash, his head was up, tension in every line of his body, his gaze pained but steadily focused on her. She stopped, resettled herself. His breathing began to slow, and he settled back against the crate.

She licked her lips, decided to try again. "What happened?"

He closed his eyes, and an expression of pain twisted his face. He shook his head. For a moment, she didn't think he would respond otherwise. Then she heard his voice, only a whisper.

"I remember."

X.

Hope flared in her chest like a sun gone supernova, but she slapped it hard and told it to go sit in the corner and behave.

"What…what do you remember, Yasha? You remember you and me and the warehouse?"

He laughed again, that gallows laugh. "Yeah."

Mentally, she aimed another brutal kick at the hope she'd felt earlier. _See? See? This is why we don't get all excited until we know all the details…_

But he was continuing. "I remember the warehouse. And the rescue mission. And why it was necessary…"

A chill ran down her spine. _Cognitive recalibration..._

He looked directly at her. "I remember listening to them plan to drug you, Natasha, and not being able to do a damn thing. I remember lifting your body and carrying to out of that dinner. It was never you who betrayed us, it was me…"

XI.

 _Fuck it._

She moved to close the distance between them and took his hand, holding it tightly even when he would have pulled away.

"No. You do NOT get to do this," she said fiercely.

"Do what? Acknowledge that I have nobody to blame for myself for what happened to both of us, for the horrors they put us both through?" Although he wasn't aware of it, tears were slipping down his face, slow, steady drops of regret.

She squeezed his hand hard. "You do not get to take the blame for something that was. not. your. fault."

He pulled again on her hand, but she refused to let him go, and he sighed and stopped. "Right. Whose fault was it again? Nobody's? Am I supposed to blame you? I assure you, little spider, while I don't recall everything yet, I remember enough to know what I did, how I let them…" He turned his face away from her as if he couldn't stand to meet her eyes.

"There is plenty of blame, Yasha," she said softly, reaching out as she'd wanted to do since she'd had him unconscious, since she'd seen him in the old chapel, since she'd watched him through her telescope, since she'd seen him stand up in the middle of the busy Washington highway, since he'd risen from behind that boulder after shooting a hole in her side. She slipped her hand against his face and stroked his tear-wet face. "I know what it feels like."

He made a scoffing noise, but he turned his face into her palm as if he craved the comfort waiting for him there. That fine trembling in him seemed to lessen and then still completely at her touch.

"You think you're the only one to go through this? They buried all kinds of things they made me do, just like they did to you. Some of them, I will never get back. I made my peace with that. When I remembered what I was able to recover, I was just as sick as you are now. I could only see two paths."

He leaned away and looked at her with cynical eyes. "And what were they?"

She squeezed his hand gently. "A bullet through the roof of my mouth…" And he nodded. Clearly, that path had already occurred to him. "…or making the bastards pay…."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Finally, he whispered, "Yes. Make the bastards pay." And he looked toward the table with its heavy load of files. His eyes returned to hers, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Ivanov."

Her answering smile was equally vicious. "And Petrov."

* * *

 **Thus ends a week of megaupdating. Are we happy, dear ones? One hopes so. See you soon.**


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